


Blinding Light

by 16pennies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cissamione, F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-09 03:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 63,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4332246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/16pennies/pseuds/16pennies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione is left prisoner at Malfoy Manor, presumed dead by the Order and her days numbered by the Death Eaters. Against all odds, she discovers an unexpected ally... Hermione grabbed the bars, pulling herself up to her knees and desperately whispering, "You're helping me! Why?" but Narcissa pretended not to hear and hurried up through the door, leaving Hermione alone in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Feeding the Prisoner

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not at all affiliated with J.K. Rowling or Warner Bros.
> 
> This story will not be a blockbuster romance or very sexual. There will be romance, but primarily it will be an exploration of the real struggles Hermione must deal with as a result of traumatic events and how she and Narcissa help each other to the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really been into Cissamione lately, so I figured I'd try my hand at writing something for them. This first chapter is really a conceptual piece, just to get a feel of how my writing would work for them and if the plot I have in mind will work. It is set during Deathly Hallows. Feedback of any kind is appreciated!
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Imprisonment, self-harm, mentioned torture

Ever since the drama that unfolded during her first year, Hermione's suspicion that she was speeding towards an imminent catastrophe only grew over time. As she huddled now on the stone floor of the dungeon of Malfoy Manor, she couldn't help but feel that this was it. She was well and thoroughly trapped in the enemy's den with practically no hope of escape. However, this grim reality stirred no panic or fear in Hermione; rather, she felt quite at peace, satisfied that her intuition had proven correct and disaster had finally struck.

Or maybe she was still in shock.

How long had she been in this dungeon? Was it even a dungeon, or perhaps a cellar? It was too dark to tell, and she couldn't feel anything other than stone around her. What kind of house actually had a _dungeon_ in it anyway?

The Malfoy's would.

Her surroundings brightened by a fragment and Hermione held her breath at the sound of shoes upon stone followed by the swish of robes. She hoped that whoever was approaching wouldn't demand too much of her; she didn't have the energy for it.

Following a startlingly feminine grunt of frustration, the dungeon illuminated. The light of the _Lumos_ struck her dilated eyes and she was blinded, quickly pinching her eyes shut in pain. It was a rather sad reminder of her situation—even light was too much for her.

"Sorry," Narcissa sounded as though she knew she probably shouldn't be apologising to a prisoner, but had realised it a moment too late. When Hermione's tired irises finally adjusted and she looked at the woman, she saw her lips pressed together tightly.

"I have brought you food," she informed her frankly. The aristocratic tones which had been so carefully groomed into her speech sounded raw and flat. Vaguely, Hermione wondered why this position of feeding the prisoner wasn't beneath this lady of the manor. _Oh, how the mighty have fallen_.

Narcissa knelt to the stone floor and slid the meagre tray through a little slot in the bars that Hermione hadn't noticed. She didn't even bother to look at the food; she knew it would be a pathetic excuse for nourishment. Her eyes followed Narcissa instead, watching as she stood.

Hermione stared at her and Narcissa stared back with a steely gaze for a hard moment before turning and heading back up the stairs, shutting the heavy door shut and submerging Hermione in darkness once again.

Instantly, Hermione missed the light. She couldn't see anything and suddenly wished she'd moved closer to the food when she could still see it. Pushing herself onto her hands and knees, Hermione crawled across the rough stone floor, slowly sweeping an arm out in front of her to try and find where the tray was. She headed in the direction she remembered it being, but the darkness quickly became disorienting and after a few moments she couldn't remember which way she was facing.

She slowed, sat back on her heels and reached an arm up to push some hair behind her ear.

Her hand encountered a goblet on the way up, and the clatter rang across the dingy cell. Hermione flinched and swore under her breath, scrambling to grab the cup and right it before she lost all her water—or whatever drink they saw fit to give a Mudblood prisoner.

She could feel cool liquid on her palm as she ran her hands along the floor trying to find the goblet, thrusting it upright when she did. She brought it to her lips and sniffed it. It smelt like nothing. She knew there could be a number of potions, some fatal, waiting for her in this cup, not to mention bacteria. Ingesting this could kill her, or disable her, or force her to yield whatever information Voldemort asked of her. Hermione wasn't sure which one was the more preferable option.

She took a tentative sip.

It tasted like water, with a hint of a bitter aftertaste which suggested they'd left it sitting out for a while. Hermione gulped down what was left in the goblet, savouring every drop and wiping the water on her hand across her face. The coolness was refreshing and helped bring her out of her brain fog.

The "food" she'd been provided with was a stale roll of bread. She picked at it, but couldn't stomach more than a few bites, so she put it back where she remembered the tray being. Satisfied that she'd explored as much as she could, Hermione crept back to her corner and leaned against the wall, sighing and hugging her knees to her chest.

* * *

When Narcissa brought her food next, the woman appeared to be trembling. Hermione couldn't tell how long it had been since her last visit, but she knew she had slept and was terribly hungry and dehydrated. Having learned her lesson, she crept toward the slot in the bars where Narcissa pushed the tray through while the woman's wand was still illuminated. Hermione could see a goblet of cloudy water as well as another bit of bread and a rather sad looking apple. _Fruit as well this time_ , she thought. _Reward for good behaviour?_

"Here is your food," Narcissa said softly, her voice shaking and not bringing herself to meet Hermione's eyes. She looked so feeble, and her wand was trembling in her hand. She had a ragged shawl over her shoulders that looked like it was doing an absolutely rubbish job of keeping the chill away.

Hermione couldn't even remember what it was like to be warm.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked, her voice hoarse from lack of use. She asked more out of instinct; she could never stand seeing others suffering.

Narcissa gave her a startled look, as though she were a frightened animal. Hermione wondered when was the last time someone had taken the woman's welfare into consideration. For a second, Hermione felt empathy for Narcissa Malfoy. She could almost believe that they were both victims of this war.

But then she remembered her haughty behaviour in the past and the despicable actions of her son, and any sort of kindred emotion was extinguished like Narcissa's wand light as she went up the stairs and shut the heavy door behind her.

Hermione reached for her food in the dark, taking a sip of the water before searching for the bread. When her fingers brushed it, she flinched. It was _warm_. Tentatively, Hermione took it into her hands, in awe of the heat against her flesh. She'd forgotten what it was like not to be shivering from cold.

The bread tasted fresh, soft and moist. It warmed her deeply and for the first time in a very long time, Hermione felt some semblance of satisfaction. She finished her food and curled up in her corner. She hadn't eaten much by any healthy standard, but it was more than she'd had in what felt like forever and she felt tired.

As Hermione drifted off, she wondered what she'd done to deserve the upgrade. She'd hardly been the most cooperative prisoner, refusing to give any information and insulting her captors. Her blood status hadn't magically improved since her last meal. She could only guess that it must have been a mistake; they'd waited so long between feeding her that they'd forgotten what her standard allowance was. She'd probably be punished by their mistake at her next meal and be given an amputated House Elf's arm to eat. Hermione wrinkled her nose at this thought, and directed her thoughts to less gory images, like the colour of Narcissa's eyes, as she fell asleep. It had been so long since she'd been in the company of another that she could barely remember that people could have such interestingly coloured irises….

* * *

"Rise and shine, Mudblood!" Bellatrix's shriek rang through the stone dungeon like a banshee's cry. Hermione flinched, jolting awake and immediately becoming aware of the stiffness in her muscles. She sat up slowly, reaching an arm up to massage her shoulder, but a sharp stinging hex dissuaded her.

"Sleep well, Mudblood?" Bellatrix cooed, clinging to the bars and following Hermione with wide eyes. She was practically bouncing with excitement. Hermione only glared at her and rubbed her shoulder, careful not to aggravate the new burn there.

Bellatrix was not impressed and flicked her wand at the prisoner, clumsily forcing her to her feet with the Imperius Curse. Hermione stumbled, aggravated at the loss of control over her own limbs and tried to gather her thoughts. How long had she slept? Three hours? Four? Were they trying to exhaust her into confessing?

"Good job, Mudblood!" Bellatrix clapped childishly and Hermione wished she would just get on with the torture so she could sleep again. She vaguely wondered what Bellatrix had in mind today. Based on the bored looks from the few Death Eaters accompanying her, she guessed it wasn't anything new.

"Now, Mudblood, I'm going to ask you a question _very_ nicely. Do you think you could answer it for me? Hmm?"

Hermione pretended to think, countering Bellatrix's pout with a pensive expression. "Hmm… probably not, no."

Bellatrix's expression turned wild and furious. "Mudblood bitch!" Hermione didn't even flinch at the slurs, and held her ground when Bellatrix tried to reach through the bars to grab at her. "Where is Potter? _Where!_ "

Hermione raised her eyebrows and shrugged, thinking of trivial things to distract her from what she knew what was coming next. _Sunsets on the beach and skiing in France and watching telly on Saturday mornings and-_

" _Crucio!_ "

* * *

The light felt like a dagger to her senses and Hermione groaned, trying to cover her eyes with her arm but then whimpering at the pain.

"Sorry," a soft voice said quickly, and the light dimmed. Hermione could barely register the meaning of the words and didn't move when she heard the scraping of her food tray on the floor. She waited for the door to shut and the light to go out, but neither happened. Instead, there was a muttering of a phrase, a hiss of pain, and then Hermione felt a gentle warmth creep its way through her muscles. It soothed her pain, not eliminating it entirely, but bringing it down to a manageable level.

Hermione let out a breath, relaxing into the floor which felt a few degrees softer beneath her body, and fell into a deep sleep as the door clicked shut and she was shrouded in darkness.

When she woke, Hermione felt better rested than she had in ages. There was still a deep ache in her body and she felt horribly grimy and hungry, but she felt what could only be described as a heightened sense of peace within.

She laid there for some time, just breathing, before crawling to the slot in the bars to see if there was any food for her. She'd learned her way around her cell and could easily find the spot without light. Part of that was worrying, as it indicated that she had been here for quite some time, but Hermione could only bring herself to be grateful that she had reclaimed some sort of independence. It felt good to not stumble around clueless in the dark anymore.

As she made her way to the tray, Hermione wondered why she was literally _handed_ food in the first place. Why not have a House Elf give it to her? Or just magic it into her cell? Surely the lack of human interaction would drive the prisoners even madder in this dungeon? To have it delivered by someone, and by the mistress of the manor, no less, seemed uncharacteristically benevolent of these blood-thirsty terrorists.

 _It's for the control_ , she realised. _To demonstrate that every element of your survival is dependent on your captors_. Hermione's lip curled in distaste. She didn't like this sudden realisation. Just when she was starting to adjust to her new situation, it seemed something popped up to make it worse.

Pushing these thoughts from her mind, she swept her hand over the floor a few times until her fingers found the tray. Hermione was surprised to find it was warm again—and _still_ warm, after however long it had been sitting here. Curious, Hermione picked up the bread and found it heavier than usual. Slowly, she pulled it apart and felt something cool fall into her palm. It had clearly been placed inside with care, considering that the bread was hot and this object obviously had a cooling charm to stop it from melting. It was smooth, and when she brought it to her nose, it smelt sweet. She pressed it to her lips and nearly moaned when she was met by the taste of chocolate. After her senses had known nothing but darkness, cold and pain, the sweetness felt like being reawakened.

She ate it slowly, taking small bites between her hot bread and crisp apple. It almost tasted like a complete dish when she combined their flavours; a gourmet dessert that was horribly out of place in a prison. When she was finished, Hermione returned to her corner and was met with another surprise: she definitely had not been imagining the softness of the stone, it was much more comfortable than the rest of the floor. Well, comfortable for a stone, at least. It gave just a little bit as she pressed on it, as though someone had attempted a cushioning charm in spite of the wards on the materials that prevented them from being altered by magic.

Hermione was dumbstruck. It was undeniable, now: Narcissa was trying to help her. The meals that became more generous with each tray, enchanting the ground she slept on, and Hermione suspected she'd administered a few healing spells. She sat there, staring into the darkness, trying to make sense of this. Her mind couldn't work it out.

As if on cue, the door opened and a dim golden light drifted down to the dungeon. Hermione held her breath as Narcissa descended, the sound of her robes against the steps and her shoes on the floor sounded louder than usual, like Hermione was hypersensitive to the lady's movements. Hermione stayed still, her heart thrumming as Narcissa approached. It seemed downright stupid that the one person who had showed her any kindness made Hermione more anxious than the team of Death Eaters who came to torture her.

Narcissa crouched to take the empty tray, but startled when she saw Hermione watching her. "You are awake," she said, surprised.

"Yeah," Hermione confirmed needlessly, creeping toward the bars. "I slept awhile." Hermione had no idea why she was saying this.

Narcissa looked down, as though in shame, and pulled the tray towards her to pick it up.

"You've hurt your hand," Hermione commented suddenly, spotting the cut on the back of Narcissa's hand as it peeked out from under her shawl to pick up the tray.

"You were in pain," Narcissa muttered, not meeting Hermione's eyes.

"What?"

Narcissa whispered quickly. "I needed an excuse in the event that they checked my wand."

She took the tray and stood quickly, moving to the stairs. Hermione grabbed the bars, pulling herself up to her knees and desperately whispering, "You're helping me! Why?" but Narcissa pretended not to hear and hurried up through the door, leaving Hermione alone in the dark.


	2. Death Row

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the positive feedback so far! Please keep reviewing and let me know what you think!
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Self-harm, mentioned torture, mentioned murder.

The next time Narcissa came to bring her food, Hermione was unable to talk. She tried to move from her position sprawled across the floor, but Narcissa held up a finger indicating she should hold still. After pushing the tray through the slot, Narcissa stood and pointed her wand at Hermione on the floor. Hermione couldn't help but flinch at the fresh memories it produced. Narcissa's spell did not inflict pain, though, and instead bathed Hermione in that warm sensation she'd felt earlier. She felt her seizing muscles relax and her breathing ease. It felt like a soothing pulse, or a tide of heat running over her distressed body…

She wanted to ask Narcissa a hundred questions, but she found herself too exhausted to stay conscious any longer and slipped into sleep under Narcissa's gaze.

* * *

Narcissa seemed to be scheduling her deliveries when she knew Hermione would be too disabled to talk. She would slide the food through the slot, warmed and with the occasional treat hiding inside, and administer a healing spell that almost always left Hermione in a peaceful sleep. When Hermione awoke, she would eat the food and try to stay awake until Narcissa returned to collect the tray, but the woman managed to always come by when Hermione was sleeping. Hermione even tried to pretend to be asleep once, but even that failed. She was beginning to think that if she didn't interact with Narcissa, she really would go crazy. Her questions didn't matter anymore—if her only interaction with other humans was to be through torture, then she would lose her sanity.

Hermione wondered if Narcissa could read her mind. Shortly after Hermione had given up, Narcissa appeared with her nightly (daily? weekly? How often was she fed?) meal. She seemed surprised to find Hermione awake, but then again Hermione wasn't very good at reading expressions anymore. She wondered if anyone in this war was even capable of rendering an expression other than the comatose fear in Narcissa's eyes right now.

Hermione crawled to the slot in the bars as Narcissa knelt down to slide her tray through the gap. She was about to thank her, when she gasped instead. "Your hand!" There was a criss-crossing of cuts across Narcissa's hand and creeping over her wrist. Before she could snatch her hand back under her shawl, Hermione grabbed the lady's fingers and held them strongly in her gasp. "You have to stop this," Hermione told her desperately.

"You were suffering," Narcissa whispered frantically. "I could not heal you without an excuse if they decided to check the wand. Please," Narcissa tried to tug her hand free and Hermione was suddenly aware of how long it had been since she'd touched another person. "I cannot stay here long."

Hermione loosened her grip enough that Narcissa could easily pull away, but did not let go of her hands. "Please don't hurt yourself for me," Hermione pleaded, searching Narcissa's eyes desperately. "Can you put some dittany on the cuts? Or another healing spell? I'm sure they wouldn't suspect if they found out you'd cast lots of spells at once. Please, promise me you'll heal them."

"I will try," Narcissa was panicking now. "But the Dark Lord does not keep a stock of healing potions and I am only allowed a wand when I come to you," she explained rapidly, giving Hermione's hand a quick squeeze before standing and pulling the shawl over her shoulders and hiding her injured hand behind the material. Hermione watched her, her thoughts of nothing but Narcissa Malfoy's safety. It seemed absurd, but, Hermione supposed, the world had turned upside down long ago.

Narcissa rushed from the dungeon without another world and Hermione ate her food slowly, mulling over the fact that she apparently had an ally in this situation, and it had had come from the most unexpected place.

* * *

They developed a habit from then on. When Narcissa brought Hermione's food, she would heal her if she needed it. She would also heal the cuts on her own arm, showing Hermione as she did it. The hardly spoke. Most of the times, Hermione was unable to speak or even think coherently. As Voldemort became more desperate for information, Bellatrix became more creative with her methods. Hermione was certain the only reason she was still alive and sane was because the information she possessed was too valuable to dispose of. She'd become used to the Cruciatus curse, and knew she could take it. And she knew Narcissa would be there to soothe the pain afterwards.

On the occasions when Hermione was able to speak, she would inspect Narcissa's hands to make sure she was taking proper care of her self-inflicted wounds. The woman refused to stop healing her, and therefore refused to stop creating little cuts on her own skin in case she needed an excuse for all the healing spells being casted with a Death Eater's wand. Strictly speaking, it was Narcissa's wand, but after Lucius' had been snapped by Voldemort, he'd adopted it as his own. Narcissa was only allowed it when she came down to deliver Hermione's meals.

Hermione never asked Narcissa why she was choosing to help her, a Mudblood prisoner of Death Eaters. They didn't have the time for unnecessary conversation, and Hermione wasn't even sure she wanted to know the answer. Narcissa's help was enough on its own.

Hermione was hardly surprised when she realised that Narcissa's visits were what she most looked forward to. After all, when you're trapped in a dungeon by racist madmen, the one kind person is naturally the most desirable. Fleeting touches to Narcissa's hand fascinated Hermione. Seeing their skin together looked like the epitome of juxtaposition: Hermione's hand was sickly pale and decorated with abrasions and bruises. Her skin was dirty and her nails torn, whereas Narcissa's, despite the cuts, was silky smooth and elegantly manicured. How she managed to maintain her appearance in the middle of a war was beyond Hermione.

Sometimes, Narcissa came to her pale and trembling, her eyes dilated with more fear than usual. Hermione hated that war made terror the default emotion. On one of these occasions, Hermione dared to ask, "What's wrong?" Her voice was unrecognisable, fractured and hoarse in the dim light of the dungeon.

Narcissa would shake her head and offer a fragment of news, such as, "They are planning to attack a family," or "He is not pleased with the latest developments." Her whispers were always vague and ambiguous. Hermione couldn't understand whether she should interpret the scraps of information as good for the Light or not. From Narcissa's perspective, she guessed that everything was bad from any angle. It hadn't taken Hermione long to suspect that this woman just wanted the war over and done with as few casualties as possible. She didn't give a damn about the politics anymore. Hermione wasn't sure she ever did.

Sometimes, when Hermione asked what had caused Narcissa to come to her shaking and horrified, she didn't answer. She just looked into Hermione's eyes and walked away. It was these responses that frightened Hermione most. In this haven of Death Eaters, where murderers were celebrated, what could be so terrible that it could not even be spoken?

Hermione was surprised she wasn't suffering nightmares, but she figured that was probably Narcissa's doing as well. Perhaps the healing spell she used had something to do with it, or the food she was given. Narcissa had told her that she didn't have any potions available to her, but that didn't mean that her meals weren't enchanted somehow. Chocolate was known to have inherent magical properties, and she'd certainly been fed plenty of that.

Hermione tried to work out why Narcissa was helping her. She doubted it was out of personal affection. Hermione had never done anything to warrant that. By all counts, Narcissa Malfoy should be spitting at her feet and tossing her food on the dirty floor, laughing as Hermione tried to pick off the mould.

Well, perhaps she would never be that cruel. She certainly seemed to have a more gentle nature than anyone else associated with Voldemort. But that still did not explain why she was going out of her way to take care of a prisoner, at great risk to herself no doubt.

Hermione supposed that it was the one thing Narcissa felt she could do to make this war a little less terrible. If she could improve one life, even if it was the life of the Mudblood that had been on the Death Eaters' wish list since she was a child, then maybe that would ease her conscience at being on the side of darkness.

Vaguely, Hermione wondered if Narcissa was actually doing her a favour by helping to keep her alive. All she was doing was ensuring she was able to be tortured more before gotten rid of. Actually, maybe she'd been ordered to do that.

Hermione moved on from that thought.

When Narcissa came next, she was in a worse state than Hermione had ever seen. Her hair was dishevelled and her alabaster features were so pale she could have been mistaken for a ghost. The light from her wand was flickering as it trembled in her hand, and when she placed the tray down, the goblet tipped over and spilled across the stone.

"Sorry," Narcissa whispered, reaching to right the cup and fill it with water again.

"What is it?" Hermione asked, sitting up on her knees and holding onto the bars to look at Narcissa closely.

The woman didn't even meet her eyes as she fiddled with the tray and pushed it through the slot.

Hermione pushed it back.

"What's wrong? What's happened?" She'd never seen Narcissa so affected, and her dread was mounting.

Narcissa battled with herself, debating whether or not she should confess, before whispering in a broken voice, "They plan to execute you in two days' time."

Hermione stopped breathing, her fear cementing into a boulder in the pit of her stomach. She'd known it was coming, but to hear it spelled out in such deafening terms was unlike anything she'd ever imagined.

Narcissa was looking at her now, her eyes shining. She pushed the tray through the slot and stood, collecting herself. With a final glance, she turned to go.

"Wait," Hermione gasped, pulling at the bars. "Wait, please," Narcissa turned back to her, a deep sadness in her eyes, and Hermione held her gaze with fiery determination.

"Help me escape."

Narcissa's eyes widened and she looked at the door before rushing to the bars Hermione was clinging to.

"You know I cannot do that! Don't even ask it of me!"

"Yes, you can!" Hermione felt terrible for asking her to do something so dangerous, but her desperation and need for survival trumped anything else. "Please, Narcissa! Help me escape! Please,"

Hermione noted that it was the first time she'd addressed the woman by her first name, and Narcissa seemed to have noticed as well.

"Hermione," she whispered softly. "It would be impossible. There are Death Eaters crawling the place like rats," she said this with no little disgust in her voice, and Hermione was smugly satisfied to find that Narcissa disliked Voldemort's soldiers in her home. "I would be tortured and killed, as would you," she spoke more gently. "My family-" Her voice broke and she started again. "My family would suffer. I cannot be the cause of their pain."

Narcissa tried to stand to go, but Hermione's arm shot through the gap in the bars and held Narcissa's arm tightly. Her skin was warm against Hermione's frigid limbs.

"Escape with me," she pleaded. "We'll leave together. They'll believe that I kidnapped you. You won't be blamed and, by extent, neither will your family," Hermione knew there was a slim chance they'd assume Narcissa was faultless if they managed to successfully get out, but she didn't voice that fact. Narcissa was clever enough to figure it out on her own, anyway.

"I cannot stay here any longer," Narcissa whispered quickly, trying to pull herself free from Hermione's grasp and stand. Hermione took this as a good sign, since she was no longer outright refusing. She stood as well, still holding Narcissa's arm through the bars and looking into her eyes with desperation.

"Please help me, Narcissa, _please_ ,"

There were tears on Narcissa's cheeks now and she shook her head, wiping away the drops with her fingers as she turned to leave. Hermione let her go, watching with despair as Narcissa ascended the steps and left Hermione to ponder her fate.


	3. Last Meal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are with the third installment! Can't wait to hear your thoughts on their daring escape plan :)
> 
> Trigger warnings: Mentioned torture, mentioned blood

Now that she knew there was a definite plan in place to kill her, Hermione's anxiety levels skyrocketed. Whenever someone came down the steps, her heart palpitated with fear that maybe now was the time and they had come to escort her to her death.

Her team of torturers became more careless, apparently liberated by the knowledge that her life wasn't of much value anymore. If she would be dead soon anyway, there wasn't much need to hold back. When Narcissa came to her next, it took half a dozen healing spells to bring Hermione's pain down to a level where she could even think straight. Lying there on her back, she looked up at Narcissa through the bars and found hesitant compassion in her eyes.

"I do not have much time," she whispered, reaching an arm between the bars to hold Hermione's hand, giving it little squeezes whenever her eyes drifted shut and she looked like she would slip unconscious. "When I return to collect your tray, I will need you to be awake and alert." There was determination in her hard gaze and Hermione focused on it, letting the little bud of hope bloom. "Rest now, but do not give up." She patted Hermione's hand like an afterthought and retreated. Hermione was asleep before Narcissa had shut the door.

Hermione was woken by a whispered " _Enervate,_ " and groaned at the aching in her body. She felt groggy, but when she opened her eyes and saw Narcissa standing above her, her head cleared a little.

"Don't move too much," she ordered when Hermione tried to push herself to a sitting position. Hermione complied and lay there, waiting for Narcissa to speak. "If we are to escape," she began, giving panicked glances to the door, "we must do it tomorrow night."

Hermione stared at her, both stunned and frustrated. Her heart jumped to her throat—what time was it, anyway?

"That allows thirty-six hours for you to recover and for me to make preparations." Narcissa shifted closer, bracing herself on one of the bars so she could lean nearer to Hermione and speak even softer. "These bars will free you when they come into contact with my blood," she explained, and Hermione wrinkled her nose.

"That's barbaric," she managed.

Narcissa gave a small, elegant shrug. "It is our way. Now, there is a stash of wands in a supply room on the first floor. I can steal a wand for you before I make my way here. As I am bonded to this house through marriage, I will be able to guide you safely through the wards."

Hermione gave a feeble nod from the floor, feeling her adrenaline begin to pump at the fact that they were really going to escape. She didn't know how she'd managed to persuade Narcissa to help, but she was immeasurably grateful for it. She watched as Narcissa took the uneaten food off the tray and levitated it to the corner where she usually slept, disillusioning it there. Hermione tried to give Narcissa a smile and thank her, but the woman's wand was aimed at her yet again and she felt the warmth drag her to sleep before she could move her lips.

* * *

It goes without saying that there was no clock in Hermione's cell. There was no calendar, either, or a window, or anything at all that could be used to measure time. Hermione had absolutely no idea how long she had slept, or what time of day it was, or how long she'd been captive. She could hardly remember Narcissa's plan; she'd barely been conscious when it had been explained.

She ate the disillusioned food when she woke. The fact that it was invisible to her made absolutely no difference in the darkness of the dungeon. Hermione's stomach twisted with anxiety over the fact that in the coming hours, she would either be executed by Death Eaters or attempt a dramatic escape with none other than Narcissa Malfoy. Sitting there, alone in the dark, her imagination presented her with a hundred scenarios. They varied greatly; some had her and Narcissa fleeing in a flurry of wandfire, taking out Voldemort on the way and winning the war for the Light. In others, they were caught in various stages of their escape and brutally tortured before being killed. They became more creative, more outlandish and exponentially more improbable as the time passed and Hermione had only the darkness for company.

Hermione dared not sleep in case someone came. She needed to be alert when Narcissa arrived, and if Narcissa failed and Death Eaters came to take her away, she would need her strength to fight back. She wasn't sure how she'd achieve the latter, but she knew she wouldn't let them drag her along without putting up some sort of resistance, however successful.

What if Narcissa would be the one to collect her for death? What if this escape plan was a ruse, to lull Hermione into a false sense of trust and safety? Maybe Voldemort and his friends were sitting around a dining room table, cackling as Narcissa told them how the silly Mudblood prisoner actually believed she would help take her to freedom.

Hermione buried her head in her hands. She couldn't afford to think this way. She'd managed to maintain her mental integrity so far and now was definitely not the time to slip into hysteria. For now, she would put her trust and her faith into Narcissa and her plan. If that turned out to be nothing but betrayal, then she would deal with that when the time came. Wasting her mental energy on morbid possibilities like that was the last thing she needed.

With that grim determination in mind, Hermione fell asleep. It was the most restless sleep she'd had in what must have been over a week and she woke after what felt like a few hours. She stayed curled up in her corner and let her thoughts drift over happy memories to keep the fear and anxiety at bay.

When the door clicked open, Hermione's heart jumped to her throat. It would have to be Narcissa; no Death Eater would ever open the door so gently or walk so quietly. Sure enough, Narcissa appeared with another tray. Was the food a disguise for her intentions? Was it time?

Hermione crawled to the bars quickly.

"I will come back in three hours to retrieve the tray," Narcissa told her in a hushed whisper. Hermione could see she, too, was struggling to keep calm. "Be ready then."

Before Hermione could get in a word, Narcissa had gone.

Hermione struggled to eat, but forced herself to since she knew she would need the energy. As she chewed, she realised that if their plan failed, this would be her final meal. She thought of the Muggle tradition of letting prisoners choose their last dish. Hermione had no idea if this was also done in the Wizarding World. It was hard to tell, considering she technically wasn't supposed to know of her impending execution and she doubted that Voldemort would be that charitable.

Besides, the Ministry didn't use the death sentence. The closest they had was the Dementor's Kiss. Were inmates on death row granted some sort of final wish before their sentence was carried out? It probably wasn't even called death row. Maybe "kiss row," or something like that.

Hermione pursued this line of thought for a while before she realised that she was thinking about one of the most morbid topics available and quickly moved on.

Where were Harry and Ron? Were they even still alive? She assumed that at least Harry was, since the Death Eaters were not celebrating. She wondered whether they had found anymore Horcruxes, where they were at the moment, and what they assumed about her fate. She could imagine the debate they must have had over whether or not to try and rescue her from the snatchers that had taken her. Hermione smiled and shook her head at the arguments they must have made. She was glad that they'd clearly decided that to try and find her would be suicide, but couldn't help the sadness the separation produced in her heart. She was so lonely and afraid and her best friends, her allies from the start, didn't even know if she was alive.

Once again, Hermione remarked on the fact that Narcissa Malfoy was the only one remotely on her side; wife of Voldemort's right-hand man, mother of her schoolyard nemesis, and sister of the witch who had driven Neville's parents to insanity. This woman was right in the middle of the web of Hermione's enemies, and Hermione wondered whether she was the spider or the trapped insect.

It was unbelievable that this woman who was intimately related to so many terrible people and who, Hermione understood, had actively supported them was now risking her own life and those of her loved ones to help Hermione escape. If she wasn't part of it, Hermione probably wouldn't have believed it. She wondered if she really had lost her mind and smirked into the darkness.

There were so many possible motives. Hermione couldn't list them all. Slytherin self-preservation seemed the most probable, but it didn't quite line up with Narcissa's obvious concern for her family. It didn't seem likely that that would trump any political ideologies, either, but then again she doubted that Narcissa had ever been as actively invested in politics as her family. Hermione couldn't work it out just yet.

A muffled noise broke Hermione from her thoughts and she tensed, holding her breath and squinting into the darkness as her heart raced. There were voices and another, louder sound, and Hermione's veins turned icy.

The door banged open and what sounded like a stampede came down the stone steps. Torches on the wall were lit with bright flames (how had Hermione never noticed those torches before?) and Hermione came face-to-face with Bellatrix Lestrange, who looked more livid than Hermione had ever seen her.

"What did you do to my sister?!" Hermione scooted backwards to press herself against the far wall of her cell so Bellatrix's flailing arms couldn't reach her through the bars. "You thought you could trick her, didn't you, Mudblood? Thought you could take advantage of a poor woman so you could escape back to your filthy friends?" Bellatrix was more hysterical than ever before and Hermione had never been more afraid of her. Her fear was consuming her; she couldn't breathe.

She dared to look past Bellatrix and spotted a herd of Death Eaters, all of them with revolting grins on their faces. Two of the larger ones were holding Narcissa between them and her head was sagging over her chest. Hermione wasn't sure if the woman was conscious and she felt nauseated by fear. What had happened? What had she done?


	4. The Executioner's Axe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm quite proud of the way this developed, although it isn't quite as long as I'd hoped it would be. Let me know your thoughts, as always!
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Mild blood, implied torture, mentioned death.

"I asked you a question, Mudblood!" Bellatrix's screeching sounded inhuman and Hermione jumped, choked by her fear. Her mind was racing, grappling to figure out what had gone wrong but finding that all she could think was, _I am going to die_.

At Hermione's silence, Bellatrix raised her wand with cruelty in her eyes and pointed it between Hermione's terrified eyes.

"Allow me, aunt," Draco's arm on his aunt's elbow stopped Bellatrix and he took her place, sneering at Hermione through the metal bars of her prison. It was almost comforting to be staring into familiar eyes that she had known for nearly a decade, but Draco looked every bit the faithful Death Eater as he aimed his wand at her heart and proudly declared, " _Imperio_ ," smirking as he made Hermione stumble to her feet and move toward him so that his wand was nearly prodding her torso. Hermione stared into his eyes, silently imploring him to remember the fact that they had known each other since they were _children_ and hoping that his young soul had more compassion than the experienced murderers flanking him. To see this boy glower at her with murderous intent while she still had the image of his eleven-year-old self in her mind was somehow more frightening than the dozens of grown Death Eaters he accompanied. She almost preferred Bellatrix.

Which would be worse: the vengeance of a sister or of a son?

Draco twisted his wand and suddenly Hermione was arching and contorting, shrieking like she'd never heard herself do before. Her eyes rolled backwards and all she was aware of was her hoarse screams and the unnatural twisting of her muscles. It was haunting to hear her agonising cries echo back to her off the stone walls, and Hermione wondered if she made sounds like this when Bellatrix questioned her. She could never tell if she was making noise when consumed by pain like that.

Writhing under Draco's wand now, she felt nothing. There was no pain, no sensation at all except for the hazy fog of the Imperius Curse as Draco manipulated her limbs to give the illusion of pain. Her body seized on its own as her lungs pushed out shrill cries, leaving Hermione feeling detached and out of control. He released her after a few moments, apparently satisfied with her performance and Hermione collapsed on the floor, panting and shaking like she usually did after Cruciatus. The trembling wasn't hard to fake, considering she was terrified. But without the lingering pain or the haze of Imperius clouding her mind, Hermione's thoughts were racing. One after the other, she formulated plans and possible outcomes. They sped through her imagination until they presented a dead end, at which point she'd scrap it and move to the next, like pathways of a maze.

"I hope you're proud of yourself, Mother," Draco spat, spinning around and tugging Narcissa from the hold of the two large men. She stumbled forward and whimpered, trying to steady herself as her son pushed her sleeve up to her elbow and ran a slicing hex down the back of her forearm. Hermione watched in horror as her skin split and Narcissa hissed in pain, the Death Eaters jeering at the sight. Draco threw his mother down to the ground so that she was lying before the bars of Hermione's cell, the fresh blood glistening on her arm in a thin line. She met Hermione's eyes and they shared a look of determined understanding.

"You've tarnished our blood, Mother," Draco continued, pushing the other Death Eaters back against the wall behind him as though he needed the space to make some dramatic move. They watched him curiously, eager for the final blow he would bestow on his traitorous mother. Bellatrix had a smug sort of anticipation on her face, as though watching an apprentice with pride. Fury and disgust was bubbling just beneath Draco's words. "You are no better than a filthy Mudblood like the one you tried to save." Narcissa's gaze was locked on the metal bar in front of her face and Hermione followed her movements, ready to leap. "You deserve to rot in a dungeon with her and let your blood mix with the dirt you sleep on." Draco concluded bitterly, and Narcissa shot her arm forward, pressing the line of blood against the metal.

The bars vanished and Hermione sprang to her feet, grabbing Narcissa's hand and pulling her along with her as they sprinted for the door. There was a shout of confusion and then a shriek from Bellatrix as they climbed the steps and squeezed through the doorway that had been carelessly left open. Hermione's muscles were weak after so much disuse and she struggled to keep her balance, Narcissa stumbling along beside her. Their hands were cold and clammy but they held tight, Narcissa taking the lead to push them forward and race down the corridor. There were a few people milling about, but they were too thick and too drunk to realise that the two women dashing by were prisoners until it was too late to stop them.

Narcissa reached into her robes and produced a wand, shoving it into Hermione's hand and releasing her from her grip, spinning around to face the oncoming Death Eaters with a wand of her own.

The spellfire was hectic, flashing around them in a disorienting light show. Hermione ran in the direction Narcissa had led them, dodging spells and tossing a few back over her own shoulder. The wand felt alien in her grip, like it didn't quite match Hermione's magic, but the spells were strong and, judging by the occasional grunt and thud behind her, effective.

This was far more terrifying than the Department of Mysteries in fifth year. She had no upper hand here, no allies to fall back on. Her body was weary and she had no idea where she was trying to go or how to get there. The only goal was survival, and she didn't have the slightest clue how to achieve it, only that she had to keep running and keep firing.

Narcissa caught up alongside Hermione, blasting open doors as they approached and throwing her own spells at the attackers behind them. The Death Eaters were screaming at the pair as they chased, hurling curses at their backs, but Hermione couldn't understand their words. Her head only had room for adrenaline, defensive spells and keeping Narcissa beside her.

A green light hit far too near her head, burning a tapestry on the wall. Hermione ran faster, seeing the front door of the manor ahead. Narcissa flung spells at it, but it remained firmly shut. They stopped, nearly crashing into the solid wall of dark wood.

"Open it!" Hermione cried hysterically, her panic growing. Her lungs burned and her heart was throbbing painfully. She wouldn't be able to run much longer before her legs gave out.

"I wasn't made aware that the security had been altered," Narcissa grunted, looking over her shoulder with fear. Hermione turned and stood against Narcissa's back, ready to protect her while she worked the door. Another green light came at them from the darkness and Hermione pushed them both down to dodge it. With unrestrained fury, Hermione shot " _Stupefy!_ " into the dark, over and over, aiming at the source of the spells flying at them.

Narcissa, huddled on the floor behind Hermione's back, pressed her bleeding arm against the door again and again, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, she gave a cry of frustration and smeared her arm across the wood, pushing her entire body against it.

There was a dull click and the door unlocked. The two wasted no time pushing it open and throwing themselves over the threshold, landing on their sides and quickly slamming the heavy door shut behind them. Hermione could feel the force of the spells hitting the other side.

Narcissa took Hermione's hand and tugged her to her feet and down the path to the main gate. Hermione barely managed to stay upright on the gravel and twisted her ankle as she ran, but didn't dare stop. The Death Eaters must have gotten through the door already; she could feel the heat of their spells almost right on her heels. Crashes sounded from the house and knew that it wouldn't be long before Bellatrix and the others would be near enough to stop them.

Narcissa halted abruptly and Hermione crashed into the iron gate, her breath knocked out of her as she fell onto her hip painfully. Narcissa didn't waste time and pressed the cut on her arm flush against the cold metal, shaking the gate and vocally pleading with it to open as the heat became more intense behind them. Hermione realised with a jolt that the warmth wasn't from incoming spells, but from a fire Narcissa had cast behind them as they ran. It was expanding rapidly, eating at the grasses and the hems of their attackers' robes. It seemed to be keeping the Death Eaters at bay for now, but it would do Hermione and Narcissa no good if they burned to death before they could flee.

The ornate gate unlocked silently and Hermione was pulled to her feet and tugged through, both of them sprinting a few metres further until they reached the tree line on the other side of the main road. When Hermione stopped running and turned around, she saw the Death Eaters trying to navigate the lawn as flames consumed the greenery, slashing their wands at the fire in an effort to extinguish it. The fire illuminated the house and the grounds even more eerily than they would have appeared otherwise, and Hermione knew that she had never been more afraid in her life.

She turned to Narcissa, who was watching the burning of her grounds in shock. She was flushed and sweaty and trembling like Hermione, both of them gasping for air and receiving only smoke in return.

With only one thought in mind, Hermione wrapped her arms around Narcissa's middle and apparated them away.


	5. Confounded Plastic Keys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kind words and views. Can't wait to hear what you think of our duo on the run...
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Anxiety, dissociation, dried blood

When they popped into existence on the busy London footpath, the two women collapsed on one another. Narcissa was sobbing and both were shaking like a leaf. Passers-by gave them curious, concerned glances and Hermione quickly cast a Notice Me Not Charm and guided them both to a bench beside a building.

Hermione's legs gave out beneath her and she crumpled on the seat, gasping for breath. It felt strange to sit again after spending however many weeks in a barren prison cell. The city lights were more than Hermione's eyes had been exposed to since her capture and the outside air was cool and fresh. The breeze played with her ratty hair and Hermione could only stare around her as Narcissa wept into her shoulder. Absently, Hermione stroked circles on the woman's side to soothe her while she surveyed their surroundings anxiously.

"Draco," Narcissa gasped, choking on her words as the tears flowed.

"He helped us," Hermione said quickly, her dry throat making her voice crack. "He wanted you out of there and he helped us escape."

Narcissa nodded, but did not appear to be calmed. "He will be punished," she told Hermione gravely. "Regardless of whether or not they determine he did not try to stop us, he will be punished for my actions."

"We can't think of that now," Hermione answered, wishing she could alleviate Narcissa's pain but knowing that the witch was correct in her analysis. Draco would suffer on behalf of his mother, and if Voldemort realised that Draco had helped them escape, then it would be doubly worse. "We can't stay here very long. We need to find a place to stay for the night." She pulled back to look Narcissa in the eye and added a bit more gently, "We cannot waste what Draco did for us by getting captured again." It felt odd to be comforting someone about the welfare of Draco Malfoy, considering that everyone else she'd ever interacted with wanted reassurance that Malfoy was suffering. But Hermione genuinely hoped Draco was safe, both for his own sake and that of his mother.

Narcissa nodded. "Yes," she agreed, pushing her tears away from her face. She seemed to notice their surroundings for the first time. "Where have you brought us?"

"Muggle London," Hermione answered as she stood on wobbly legs to pick up a few leaves on the ground. She prepared for a disdainful comment about the location, but none came. Narcissa was silent as she surveyed the street with wide, curious eyes.

Hermione was relieved by her lack of bigotry for the time being and transfigured the leaves into Muggle money, stuffing it in her pocket in case of emergency. After so long without magic, it felt foreign to hold a wand and execute spells. Hermione was irritated that Voldemort had managed to make magic feel wrong to her.

"We should find a hotel to rest in for the night," Hermione suggested, dropping herself back onto the seat beside Narcissa. "Preferably one far from this spot so we will be harder to trace."

Narcissa nodded. "You will need food and a great deal of rest," she said softly.

Hermione smiled at that. It was a relief to find that being free of the dungeon didn't alter Narcissa's attitude towards her. Or at least not yet.

Free of the dungeon. Every particle of Hermione's being seemed to be keenly aware of her freedom. Even the air seemed to be embracing her. She hadn't noticed it, but the atmosphere of Malfoy Manor had been pushing against her, as though rejecting her presence or deeming her unworthy. Hermione wouldn't be surprised if there were wards on the land to prevent wizards of lesser blood status from trespassing. The idea was infuriating.

Hermione looked herself over, then Narcissa and smiled dryly. "I think we both need a bit of a makeover before we go strolling around Muggle London," she aimed her wand at Narcissa's robes to transfigure them into something more appropriate, but her wand was shaking too much and she found herself too exhausted to focus. Her arm dropped back into her lap. "Could you transfigure your clothes into something like the Muggle women are wearing?" she asked, feeling a bit lightheaded.

Narcissa nodded and watched the ladies walking by for a few minutes before carefully aiming her wand at herself and closing her eyes in focus. When she opened them again, she was dressed in a dark green pantsuit. Hermione wanted to roll her eyes; of course Narcissa Malfoy would dress like a posh Muggle.

Hermione remedied her own clothes with a " _Reparo,_ " and watched with mild fascination as the torn seams restitched themselves and the soles of her shoes mended. She still looked battered and dirty, but she guessed she would be looking that way for a while.

Narcissa eyed her critically and Hermione suddenly felt rather self-conscious. It was stupid, really, considering this woman had seen her crippled and bedraggled beyond belief. Anything had to be an improvement from how Hermione had looked in that cell.

Hermione's knotted hair began to tug itself into a twisted bun on the back of her head under the guide of Narcissa's wand.

"I think it will take more than a hairdo to make me look presentable," Hermione commented, her voice still cracked and dry. Narcissa only smiled in amusement and flicked her wand a few times, tilting her head sideways as she worked. Hermione felt the air in front of her face thicken like a condensed shield and she recognised the presence of a glamour charm.

"This should get you by without attracting too much attention," Narcissa said when she had finished. Hermione nodded her thanks and pushed herself to her feet. Immediately, her thighs quivered and her ankle began to ache. The shock must be wearing off, adrenaline slowly draining from her system and abandoning her to her injuries.

Narcissa held her elbow, waiting until she steadied herself before slowly setting off down the street to what Hermione indicated was a bus stop.

"I have never walked among Muggles like this," Narcissa remarked idly as she scanned the shop windows.

"Why am I not surprised," retorted Hermione sarcastically, limping alongside her.

Narcissa didn't respond and they walked along in silence, Hermione leaning on the other woman for support. To be among people again felt surreal, and she couldn't stop herself from startling when a pedestrian bumped her. She hadn't been among friendly crowds since Bill and Fleur's wedding…

When they boarded the bus, Narcissa whispered " _Confundo_ ," under her breath, her wand discreetly pointed at the driver, and he welcomed them aboard without pay. They sat by a window and Hermione watched the streets pass them by, trying to quell her anxiety. She couldn't remember the last time she hadn't been scared. To believe that she was safe now was impossible.

"Where are we going?" Narcissa asked softly, surveying the bus with interest.

"I don't have a specific place in mind," Hermione answered quietly. "Just as long as it's far from where we appeared."

Narcissa nodded and they sat together in silence. Hermione's brain felt muddled and unstable. Her thoughts were sporadic, jumping around from topic to topic, confusing and disorienting her. She couldn't think straight, and she needed to do that if they were going to survive the night.

"Let's get off here," Hermione blurted out after half a dozen stops, jumping to her feet unsteadily and rushing to the door. Narcissa followed, surprised by Hermione's sudden movement.

The cool night air was welcome on Hermione's clammy skin; she hadn't noticed she'd been sweating. She looked up and down the street as Narcissa stood beside her, waiting for instruction.

"This way," Hermione declared, setting off down a strip of restaurants. Her footsteps were uneven and each stride aggravated her twisted ankle and bruised hip, but she kept going, believing that if she slowed for even a second she would collapse.

Narcissa walked beside her, wearily watching their surroundings and keeping a concerned eye on Hermione. "Are you alright?" she dared to ask.

"Yes," Hermione answered briskly, turning a corner and finding herself eye-to-eye with the foyer of a Hilton. "Perfect," she muttered, satisfied that even under stress she was able to get them where they needed.

Narcissa held the door for them both and Hermione hobbled through. The golden light reflecting off the pale marble floor and elegantly furnished foyer hit her eyes like a Stunning spell. She stared, dazed and unfocused, ahead of her. She could feel her breathing become shallow and suddenly didn't know how to move.

"Hermione," Narcissa whispered near her ear. "Hermione, you are unwell." Placing one hand on her elbow and the other on her back, Narcissa guided Hermione to a leather sofa against the wall. Hermione stumbled, following blindly, and crumpled onto the cushions. Narcissa wasted no time casting a Notice Me Not and knelt before Hermione, trying to keep her attention long enough to get the information she needed.

"What do I need to do?"

"Ask for a room for two," Hermione mumbled, closing her eyes and pressing her clammy cheek against the cool leather. "For one night. If they ask for anything like ID, just use Confundus." Narcissa nodded and patted Hermione's cheek before standing, lifting her chin and striding to the concierge desk.

"Good evening," the girl chimed.

"Good evening," Narcissa echoed, emphasising her haughty demeanour. "I would like one room for tonight, please."

The young woman tapped at her keyboard and Narcissa couldn't help but watch curiously. Looking back up, the girl asked, "Can I have a name, please?"

Narcissa thought for a split second, then slid her wand from her sleeve and discreetly pointed it at the girl's head. " _Confundo_ ," she mumbled, and the girl's cheerful expression was replaced by dazed confusion.

"Right," she muttered, looking at her screen with furrowed brows. After a moment, she pulled out a plastic card and scanned it before slipping it in a paper wallet. She placed it on the desk with a booklet. "Here's some information about the facilities, and here is your key. Lift is to your right, and your room is number 361."

Narcissa stared at the items, puzzled, but took them in her hands like she knew what she was doing. "Thank you," she gave the girl a nod and walked to where Hermione rested, kneeling in front of her. "I did as you said," Narcissa told her gently, trying to coax her eyes open with gentle touches to her arm. "We have to go to our room now."

Hermione nodded, and pushed herself to a sitting position, though her eyes were still closed. Narcissa took her arm and helped her up, slowly guiding her to the lift as the girl had described. Narcissa was relieved that Muggles had lifts as well; that was one thing she knew how to use. She didn't see any grilles like the Ministry's lifts, but she assumed the metal doors were similar.

"Did you push the button?" Hermione mumbled after a still moment.

"Pardon?"

"You have to push the button to make the lift come." Narcissa looked at the wall, puzzled. "They have arrows on them," Hermione explained. "Push the up one."

"Ah," Narcissa took a step forward and gently pressed the indicated button, making a hum of surprise when it illuminated beneath her finger. As she pulled her hand back, she noticed the rusty shade of dried blood smeared across her arm, staining the inside of her emerald sleeve. She'd forgotten to heal herself. Goodness, she must be a sight.

A chime grabbed Narcissa's attention and she looked up to see the metal doors slide apart, presenting a small room with tinted mirrors. Narcissa guided Hermione in, jumping in surprise when the doors nearly closed on them. Hermione sank to the floor and leaned against the cool mirrors.

Narcissa looked around, surprised to find no attendant in the lift. She spotted the buttons by the door and assessed them, wondering which one was required this time. After a moment of confusion, she asked, "Which button should I press now?"

"What floor is our room?" came Hermione's reply.

"I don't know," Narcissa answered, suddenly feeling horribly inept. "The girl didn't say."

"Do you know our room number?"

"Yes, it is 361."

"Press number three," Hermione instructed, and Narcissa did as she said. The lift began to pull them upwards for a few moments and then stilled, the doors sliding open again.

Narcissa went to help Hermione stand, slowly helping her to her feet.

"The doors have shut!" she exclaimed.

"Push the open button," Hermione moaned, feeling more and more dazed as the minutes passed.

"Which one is that?"

Hermione couldn't think of the words she needed, so she stumbled forward and pressed the silver button with the triangles separating and the doors parted for them. She leaned on Narcissa, barely aware of her surroundings as the older woman guided them down the silent corridor, following the signs until she found their assigned room. "This is it," she announced, and reached for the handle. She twisted it, then frowned when it didn't move. "It will not open."

"Use the key,"

Narcissa looked at the papers she was holding against her chest. "She did not give me a key."

"It isn't a metal key," Hermione gasped, struggling to breathe. "It's a plastic card. Probably in paper. You put it in the slot." Hermione slid to the floor again, feeling herself fading rapidly while Narcissa searched for the key. When she'd found it, she leaned down to examine the slot in the door.

"Muggles are most curious, aren't they," she said to no one in particular, inspecting the illustration on the back of the card. She stuck the card in the slot as the instructions dictated and let out a noise of triumph when it made a chirping sound and flashed green. Prodding the handle again, Narcissa smiled proudly when the door opened.

"Here we are," she whispered to Hermione, gently encouraging her to crawl over the threshold. As soon as there was enough room for the door to shut beside her, Hermione curled into a ball on the floor. Narcissa closed the door and grunted in frustration when they were plunged into darkness. " _Lumos,_ " she muttered, kneeling down beside Hermione's trembling form and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "What is the matter?"

Hermione was wheezing, her skin shining with sweat and even though she was hugging her knees, she was shivering. Narcissa frowned and pressed a palm to Hermione's forehead. "You have a fever," she told her with concern.

Hermione gasped for breath. "Narcissa," she cried, "I can't breathe!"


	6. Warming Charms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your feedback has been overwhelming and I can't wait to hear what you think of the next few chapters. Things may slow down a bit as they try to sort themselves out, but I promise it's not over yet...
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Panic attack/anxiety episode, mentioned drowning, mentioned abuse, minor injuries such as bruises, hair pulling

"Hermione," Narcissa intoned firmly. "Hermione, listen to me. Focus on the sound of my voice."

Hermione only curled into a tighter ball. Her breathing continued to be erratic, but didn't deteriorate further. Narcissa took this as a good sign.

"It's alright," Narcissa told her softly, placing a gentle hand on Hermione's back and stroking it lightly. "You are safe, you are free." Hermione remained in her foetal position, but seemed to be comforted by Narcissa's assurances. Encouraged, Narcissa continued. "No one will find us here, I promise. We are safe; I will protect you." As Narcissa tried to calm the shaking witch, it dawned on her that these were not empty promises. She was actually enabled to protect Hermione, to protect both of them; she was just as liberated by this escape as Hermione was. Perhaps her prison had not been as obvious, but it was just as effective.

With renewed determination, Narcissa wrapped her arms around Hermione and ran her fingers over her back in soothing circles. "It's alright, I'm here," she whispered. She didn't know if this was a consoling prospect or not, but she certainly hoped so.

Hermione moved nearer to Narcissa's touch, finding great comfort in the woman's hold and gentle voice. She felt like all of her emotions from the past weeks which had been hibernating under her shock and fear were suddenly bubbling up and spilling over. She couldn't control her sobs and clung to Narcissa as she trembled, hoarse cries being ripped from her throat a she let the tsunami of feeling force its way out of her mind and heart.

Hermione cried for longer than she'd ever thought she was able to. Her sadness and anxiety and fear felt never-ending, but her energy ran out before she could expel all her emotions and she was left with her cheek on Narcissa's shoulder, her face streaked with hot tears. Narcissa's arms were holding her close and rubbing her arm and back as they huddled on the ground in the darkness; Narcissa's _Lumos_ had expired long ago and her wand had slipped from the woman's hand.

Hermione was silent for a few long minutes after her sobs subsided, resting against Narcissa's front as she waited for her breathing to stabilise.

"I'm sorry," she croaked.

"It's alright," Narcissa's soft reply was right by Hermione's ear and she was struck by how near they were, and how absurd it was that she was in a room in a Muggle hotel, crying into the shoulder of Narcissa Malfoy. Now that she was no longer imprisoned, Hermione felt herself slowly sliding back into her usual personality. Seeing her situation through her own eyes rather than those of the frightened animal she'd become in the dungeon, she was suddenly rather uncomfortable.

Hermione slowly sat up, distancing herself from Narcissa so that they were no longer touching, but became overwhelmed with dizziness and had to lie down again. Narcissa found her wand and illuminated another _Lumos_ , looking down at Hermione with concern.

"What do you need?"

"Water, I think," Hermione croaked, ignoring her pride for a moment and allowing Narcissa to help her. "If you turn on the light—there should be a button or a switch on the wall—you'll see there are some glasses, probably in the bathroom."

Narcissa stood and ran her wandlight along the wall until she found something that fit Hermione's description and pressed it cautiously. A light in the ceiling of the room turned on and suddenly there were surrounded by a warm glow. Narcissa extinguished her wand and squinted at the light. "It is like a candle," she remarked, "but its flame does not flicker."

Hermione was nearly amused by Narcissa's responses to basic Muggle technology. It was like watching a child trapped in the body of a grown woman.

After a second of pondering, Narcissa moved to the adjoining bathroom and found two overturned glasses waiting by the sink. She took one and aimed her wand at it, muttering, " _Aguamenti_ ," and watched with satisfaction as it filled with water. She took it and knelt beside Hermione on the floor, helping her sit up and gulp it down. Narcissa filled it again and again until Hermione had had her fill.

Hermione couldn't remember the last time she'd had more than just a meagre gobletful of water. Even on the run with Harry and Ron, they'd never had plentiful resources. This simple glass against her lips felt like an oasis and it was only when Hermione felt like she couldn't drink anymore that she raised her hand as an indication to stop and lay back down on the floor. The fluid sloshed around her belly, but she could feel her body gratefully absorbing it and slid just a little more back into her usual self.

"Thank you," she breathed, her eyes shut.

"You're welcome," Narcissa replied softly, setting the glass down on the carpet and looking Hermione up and down. She was covered in dirt and her skin was a sickly pale colour. There were bruises and marks speckling her flesh and her hair was an absolute disaster. Gently, Narcissa placed her palm on Hermione's forehead again and was relieved to find that it was not as warm as before. She was probably overwhelmed and horribly malnourished; Narcissa couldn't begin to imagine her suffering.

"You should bathe before you sleep, Hermione," Narcissa suggested, squeezing her arm a little to get her attention.

Hermione groaned. "I'm so tired…"

"I know," Narcissa stood. "Rest and I will prepare the water." She turned, then cast a softening charm on the floor as an afterthought. Hermione pressed deeper into the suddenly soft carpet and Narcissa went to the bathroom, satisfied that she would be alright for the time being.

The Muggle bath didn't look terribly different from a magical one, to Narcissa's relief. She leaned over and peered at the taps, twisting them and smiling when water began to pour out. Usually one of her elves would run her baths for her, but Narcissa was perfectly capable on her own. She adjusted the taps until the water was pleasantly warm.

After a few minutes of surveying the bath, Narcissa frowned. It didn't seem to be filling; all the water was going down the drain. Narcissa couldn't understand why the water hadn't activated the plug like in her home.

Determined not to be outsmarted by a Muggle contraption, Narcissa pulled up her sleeve and reached her arm down to prod at the little metal disc. She tried pushing it down, but it would not budge. Frustrated, she dried her hand on a towel and analysed the other little buttons and levers next to the taps.

Curiously, she reached out and pulled out a slim metal rod from the wall.

Hermione's eyes flashed open when she heard Narcissa's scream and she jumped to her feet, stumbling to the bathroom with her wand drawn. She couldn't immediately identify any danger and stared in confusion at Narcissa Malfoy being soaked by the shower.

"What on Earth are you doing?"

Narcissa pulled herself out of the spray, looking very much like a drowned animal with water soaking her hair and back. "I was attempting to plug the drain," she gestured with frustration, "but apparently I activated the wrong thing!" She threw her hands up. "I do not understand these Muggle technologies."

Hermione broke out in laughter. Narcissa watched, waiting for her to collect herself, but when Hermione continued to laugh hysterically, Narcissa sighed and flicked her wand at her own soaked head, trying to wring the water out with a drying spell. It managed to dry her hair, but also made it frizz up, which naturally pushed Hermione into another fit of giggles.

"I thought you were being attacked or something!" gasped Hermione between laughs. Narcissa only rolled her eyes, secretly gratified to see Hermione smiling. It seemed miraculous after a month of gruelling captivity and torture.

"If you could turn off the shower and fix the drain, I will prepare your bath while you rest."

Hermione wiped the amused tears from her eyes and did as Narcissa asked. Her eyes widened at the feeling of the warm water against her skin and she was suddenly very impatient to submerge herself. When was the last time she'd had a proper wash?

She left Narcissa to finish the preparations and explored the rest of their room. There wasn't much to see; simple bed, bland artwork and generic furnishings. The clock on the bedside table said it was two o'clock in the morning. To have definitive knowledge of the time felt strange after so long being imprisoned in empty darkness. What was the date? Hermione honestly had no idea how long she'd been held in Malfoy Manor.

She sat in an armchair and gazed out at the city lights until Narcissa told her the water was ready. Hermione thanked her, feeling very awkward about having Narcissa Malfoy run her a bath.

But when she saw the clean, steaming water, all thoughts were wiped from Hermione's mind. She wanted to moan at the sight. Wasting no time undressing, Hermione closed her eyes and lowered herself into the bath with a luxurious sigh. She suspected Narcissa had used an extension charm, since there was no way such a shallow bath should comfortably reach up to her chin. Based on the slight floral aroma, the woman had added some of the bath oils in little bottles by the sink, too.

Hermione sank into the warmth, letting it wash away the grime and pain of her captivity. She scrubbed her skin mercilessly with soap until it was raw and smooth, every molecule of abuse exfoliated. The small hotel bottles of shampoo made Hermione scoff, and she easily used all of the product as she washed her hair half a dozen times. It was a nightmare, tangled and matted and full of dirt. Her fingers became caught in the knots and she grabbed her wand in frustration, aiming it at the wall to sever the metal loop which held a towel. She summoned it to her wet hand and transfigured it into a wide-tooth comb. It took a good twenty minutes to work it through her hair with the conditioner and she winced as fistfuls of strands came away from her scalp.

The water didn't get any colder, so Hermione wasn't sure how long she lingered in the bath. Her fingertips were wrinkly by the time she brought herself to get out, but she didn't regret it at all. Her body was still bruised and swollen in some places, but her skin had a healthy pinkish glow to it and her hair felt silky smooth, albeit very tender near her scalp and slightly thinner than it had been.

Hermione wrapped herself in a plush towel and debated whether she should put her clothes back on before stepping out of the bathroom. They sat in a tragic heap on the floor, her faded jeans and simple t-shirt and jumper. They were the absolute last thing she wanted to wear; she was half tempted to set them on fire and be done with it.

Without a second thought about whether it was polite, Hermione quietly opened the bathroom door and stepped onto the carpet.

"How do you feel?" Narcissa was quick to spot her from where she sat on the armchair by the window, a cup of tea cradled in her hands. How had this witch managed to make tea in a Muggle hotel room?

"Much better, thank you," Hermione answered, self-consciously pulling her towel closer around her.

Narcissa set her tea on the table and moved to the bed, holding up a bit of pale fabric. "I transfigured this for you from one of the curtains," she explained somewhat bashfully, and Hermione realised that it was a nightgown and that one of the curtains was indeed missing.

"Thank you," Hermione said in surprise, reaching forward to take the material. It felt a bit stiffer than most clothing, probably because it was made from the starchy curtains, but it was a thousand times better than having to sleep in her filthy clothes. She hesitated for an awkward moment, then silently went back to the bathroom to put on the nightgown. It wasn't fitted by any means, but it covered her and felt clean.

When she stepped back out, drying her hair with a towel, Narcissa had transfigured her own clothes into a silky pyjama set. A deep shade of green again, Hermione noted with a smirk.

"I made you tea," Narcissa gestured to the second cup on the table and Hermione moved to sit in the other armchair, wincing as she sat. She'd forgotten about her bruised hip.

"I didn't know you know how to use a Muggle kettle," Hermione remarked, feeling unbelievably awkward.

"I'm afraid I do not," Narcissa answered, just as uncomfortably. "I used a warming charm to heat the water."

"Oh," Hermione took a sip of the tea and added some cream from one of the little plastic containers on the table. The silence felt stiff and strained. Hermione wanted to interrogate the woman across from her, to sort out the particulars of everything she was confused about, but she was too exhausted, and settled for the most pressing question burning her mind. "Do you know what the date is?"

Narcissa blinked. "It is nearing the end of May," she answered plainly.

"May?" echoed Hermione, feeling numb. "But I thought it was only April when I was snatched…"

As though confirming the passing of a loved one, Narcissa mournfully confirmed, "It was April."

A month. Hermione had been the Death Eater's prisoner for a month. Her emotions swung between proud and horrified, and there were fresh tears burning at her eyelashes again. She let out a choked sob and buried her face in her hands.

Narcissa's arms were around her in an instant. Hermione leaned into her touch, allowing her hold to comfort her as she cried for the second time that night—or morning.

"You should rest now, Hermione," Narcissa suggested gently. "You are exhausted and you need sleep. It will be easier after that."

Hermione wasn't sure what Narcissa thought would be easier. Existence itself? She was probably right.

"I haven't finished my tea," she said rather pathetically, tears still running down her cheeks.

With one arm still wrapped around her shoulders, Narcissa guided Hermione to her feet. "It's alright; I will take care of it."

Hermione couldn't speak. She could feel herself unravelling again like she had done earlier, only now she didn't have enough energy to fall apart. She stumbled to the bed as Narcissa encouraged and collapsed on it, too distressed and distraught to appreciate the comfort of a mattress. She was vaguely aware of Narcissa adjusting the blankets for her, but any sort of external observation was quickly swallowed by her tumultuous mind. Any sort of peace she'd found during her bath was gone now, and the violent emotions which had crashed around her mind earlier were coming back in full force.

The familiar sight of Narcissa's sad eyes as she aimed her wand at Hermione's head was the last thing Hermione saw before she slipped unconscious.


	7. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read so far!
> 
> Things should pick up a bit again after this chapter, now that our heroines have had some time to recover. Also, quick shout-out to the people who compile the Harry Potter Wikis. Without them, I would be making up spell names using Google Translate.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Implied sexual themes, dried blood, fresh blood, mentioned torture

Despite her anxiety and fear, Hermione woke after a long sleep. It seemed odd that as soon as she was given a bed, she slept soundly. Perhaps she'd been more worn down than she'd thought.

Hermione pushed herself up in the bed, wincing at the aches in her body. There was sunlight coming in through the window and it stole Hermione's breath away. She hadn't seen sunlight in a month, and the rays floating through the glass were more beautiful than she could have dreamt. It spilled across the coarse carpet and made the bed sheets sparkle. Hermione wanted to cry; every reminder of her freedom seemed to evoke another parcel of emotion. She couldn't help but wonder what would happen when her heart was wrung out all the way and there was nothing left to extract.

Hermione was very much aware of her need for a toilet and tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but froze when she spotted something beside her.

How had she not realised there was only one bed in this hotel room? Obviously it was a petty issue compared to the rest of what she was dealing with, but cuddling up next to Narcissa Malfoy was not a minor thing by any standard.

Hermione stared down at the woman as she slept. Her silky pyjamas were a little less green than they had been last night, the transfiguration having worn off a little. She was lying on her front, her blonde hair splashing across the pillow and her face directed toward Hermione's side of the bed. Hermione spotted her wand sticking out from beneath her pillow, near her fingertips, and couldn't help but admire Narcissa's sense of caution. It was refreshing after spending so many years with Harry and Ron whose only concerns were offensive rather than defensive. Had she escaped with them, Harry probably would have insisted on confronting Voldemort himself on the way out.

What would her boys say if they could see her now, waking up in bed with Narcissa Malfoy in a hotel room?

Hermione nearly snickered to herself. It sounded hilariously scandalous when put that way.

She slipped silently from the bed, still in awe that she actually had a mattress to sleep on, and limped a little on her twisted ankle as she made her way to the bathroom. To have modern plumbing after being on the run and imprisoned with only trees and metal tins was a pleasant change to say the least. Hermione felt like she'd gone from being a king's prisoner to being the king himself.

Her clothes were still sitting in a pile on the floor and Hermione dug through the trouser pockets to find the leaves she'd transfigured into Muggle currency. She didn't like the idea of using it to pay, considering it was technically counterfeit, but she couldn't afford to worry about that right now. They had no Muggle accounts to withdraw from and Hermione doubted that Narcissa had any brought any Galleons with her. Even if she had, how would they be able to convert them into Muggle notes without being recognised?

Surely Hermione was not the only wizard to create artificial Muggle pounds like this. Did wizards creating Muggle money in this way affect the Muggle economy and cause inflation? It was an intriguing possibility. Hermione pursued this line of thought for a minute, before coming to her senses and chuckling to herself.

Pondering the effect of transfiguration on Muggle economics? Goodness, she really was recovering.

She felt this keenly as she looked around the bathroom now. She was able to look at the furnishings without fear, without constantly analysing the threat they posed to her safety. She was by no means the same way she had been before her captivity (she doubted she ever would be), but to have her mind clean of constant anxiety was a mercy she desperately needed. It allowed her to catch her breath and prepare for whatever was headed her way. To be able to rest in comfort and relative safety, to be able to smile genuinely and without strain were luxuries she'd thought she'd never experience again.

Finished, Hermione left the bathroom and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Narcissa sitting up in the bed, watching her.

"Good morning," Hermione stuttered, startled.

"Good morning," Narcissa echoed, pushing her hair out of her eyes. "How do you feel?"

"Much better," answered Hermione honestly. "My ankle is a bit sore and I'm not exactly in amazing shape, but it's a far cry from how I was yesterday. Thank you for your help," she added awkwardly.

"Let me see your ankle," Narcissa said immediately, sitting up straighter and reaching for her wand. Hermione did as she asked and limped over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it and swinging one leg up onto the mattress, presenting her swollen, tender ankle for Narcissa's inspection.

Hermione pursed her lips in self-consciousness as Narcissa surveyed the injured joint and aimed her wand at it. With a clipped, " _Episkey_ ," Hermione's ankle relaxed and the swelling went down almost immediately.

"Thank you," Hermione said as she gingerly pressed her leg on the floor. When there was no pain, she stood experimentally.

"Do you have any other injuries which need healing?"

"Just a few bruises," Hermione answered, resisting the urge to snort. She had more injuries than she could count, but she doubted that another brisk _Episkey_ would erase the memories of relentless Cruciatus and the bony shape of her figure. "What about you?"

"Only a few scrapes and bruises, which I healed last night." Narcissa responded, gazing at the length of her wand as she twisted it between her fingers.

"Okay," Hermione paused, feeling more and more awkward as this conversation proceeded. "What about the cut on your arm? The one Draco gave you?" She tried to voice the question gently, hoping not to hit a sensitive spot. The last thing she wanted was to upset Narcissa, especially when they were both in such a delicate state.

Narcissa was silent and Hermione worried that she'd gone too far. "I do not wish to erase that particular mark," she answered quietly after a moment.

"Oh," mumbled Hermione, not wanting to question but dissatisfied with this answer. "Can I see it at least? Just to make sure it won't get infected," Hermione said quickly, her voice sounding uncharacteristically small.

Narcissa conceded and slid her sleeve up her arm, presenting her forearm to Hermione's view. The cut ran from her elbow down to her wrist and still had dried blood darkening the skin nearby. Hermione frowned, and took Narcissa's hand to straighten out her arm and view the cut better. Narcissa flinched and tried to pull back, but Hermione held strong.

"Can I clean it for you, please? Just to get rid of the blood around it. I'll even use Muggle methods, if you want, so it won't heal it at all, but you need to clean and bandage this."

Narcissa frowned and her voice shook as she spoke. "I do not wish to erase the last interaction with my son."

"You don't have to explain," Hermione assured her quickly. "But you can't let this go untreated. I promise I'll only clean it. It won't make it fade or go away, just get rid of the dried blood around your arm." Hermione tried to convey her earnest intentions through her gaze and, after a moment, Narcissa gave her a nod of consent. Relieved, Hermione leaned over to the table beside her half of the bed and grabbed her wand (had Narcissa put it there? Hermione certainly hadn't). Pointing it at the dried blood on Narcissa's flesh, Hermione clearly stated, " _Tergeo_ ,"and watched with satisfaction as the dried flakes of rusty blood vanished, leaving Narcissa's skin clean.

"Thank you," Narcissa said softly, sadly looking at the single dark line left behind.

"You're welcome," Hermione answered, lighting running her fingers over the soft skin near the injury to make sure it didn't require any more attention. "You should be careful with this," she instructed. "If you twist your arm or stretch the skin too much, it will open again and it'll never heal."

"Very well," Narcissa conceded, pulling her arm from Hermione's hold and pushing her sleeve back down to her wrist. "Now," Narcissa said decisively, swiftly changing subjects. "What shall we do about breakfast?"

"I vote room service," Hermione answered eagerly. At Narcissa's blank expression, she explained, "It's where you tell them what you want over the phone and they bring the dishes to the room."

Narcissa seemed pleased by that idea and Hermione wanted to smirk; of course this woman would love to be doted on like this.

Hermione went to where the phone sat and picked up the booklet next to it, handing it to Narcissa on the bed. "Here's the menu," she told her, opening it to the first page and pointing to a phone number. "When you make a decision, press these buttons on the phone in the sequence they're written and then speak into the receiver. Someone should pick up to take your order. I don't have any requests," Hermione explained. "I'll be in the bathroom cleaning my teeth."

At the mention of food, Hermione had been reminded that she hadn't brushed her teeth during her month of captivity. The new toothbrush in the bathroom had made her keenly aware of the disgusting feeling of her mouth and she was impatient to scrub the grime off her teeth. She left Narcissa to work out the phone and set to work, brushing until her gums bled.

She heard Narcissa slowly dial and apparently make a few mistakes, if the number of button presses was any indication. It took at least a minute before she heard Narcissa's voice, haughty as ever, addressing whoever was at the end of the line. Hermione couldn't help but smile as she listened to the Pureblood witch try to figure out how to order food. By the volume of her voice, she must have been holding the receiver rather far away from her face, but that was resolved after a few moments and she seemed to be doing well enough with the telephone.

When Hermione rinsed her toothbrush a few minutes later, Narcissa was still talking on the phone. Hermione frowned at this; it shouldn't take so long just to order breakfast. What on Earth was the woman doing? Hermione tentatively stepped out of the kitchen and saw Narcissa sitting on the bed, her back to Hermione, speaking on the phone like she'd been doing it from birth.

"Thank you," she said politely into the receiver, then after a second she pulled it away from her head and looked at it curiously.

"All done?" Hermione asked.

Narcissa jumped and twisted on the bed to face her. "Yes," she answered, looking back to the phone. "How do I… make it stop?"

Hermione bit back the urge to laugh and walked over to where Narcissa sat, taking the phone from her hands and showing her how to set it back on the cradle. Narcissa watched with unrestrained interest.

"So, what did you order?" Hermione asked awkwardly when she'd finished her explanation. Here she was, alone with Narcissa Malfoy with absolutely no excuse not to make small talk.

Narcissa shrugged. "A large variety of dishes," she answered simply and Hermione wondered if she realised that they would have to pay for it. Had this woman ever even glanced at the price of a purchase before?

"The food will be brought here?" Narcissa clarified and Hermione nodded.

"Yeah, someone will bring it on a trolley I think. We'll let them in, they'll set it out for us and then leave."

"Should I dress?"

"Pardon?"

Narcissa smirked as she repeated, "I hardly think it would be polite to open the door in my night things."

Hermione looked Narcissa up and down in her silky emerald pyjama set, becoming hyperaware of her own rather bland makeshift nightdress.

"I don't think it will matter much," Hermione answered uncomfortably. "They won't be here very long and I'm sure they've seen worse." Hermione tried to laugh and Narcissa gave her a smile.

"Very well," she conceded. An awkward moment passed, both of them visibly uncomfortable until Narcissa asked, "How long will we wait before our breakfast is brought?"

"It depends on how much you ordered," Hermione answered, studying Narcissa's reaction. She seemed pensive, unusually pale and her eyes were clearly irritated from exhaustion.

"Can you please demonstrate how to use the rest of the Muggle technology?" asked Narcissa. Hermione was stunned by her directness. Narcissa didn't seem at all embarrassed, only concerned for Hermione's strength and how physically able she was. Hermione had a feeling that if Narcissa ever felt any sort of shame or embarrassment, she hid it behind her intimidating gaze. Perhaps she was doing it now.

"Sure," Hermione looked around for a moment, wondering what would be alien to a witch isolated from Muggles her whole life. She figured she's start with the basics and walked over to where the door was, Narcissa following.

"Well, you already know how the light works." Hermione pressed the switch on the wall and demonstrated how the light in the ceiling turned on and off again. "Each light, like those lamps over there, has its own switch. If you can't figure out which one it is, just press a few until you find the right one."

Narcissa nodded in understanding and Hermione had the distinct impression that she was schooling a woman twice her age.

They wandered around the room, Hermione pointing out Muggle items and illustrating their use. Narcissa was mostly quiet, occasionally offering a comment and always attentive. Hermione showed her the mini fridge, the various features of the bathroom, the coffee machine and kettle, and finally the television. Hermione described it as a visual radio and showed her how the remote worked like a wand and could be used to control the screen.

"This is magic," Narcissa declared, taking the remote into her hands and scanning the buttons.

Hermione chuckled. "No, it isn't. It's Muggle engineering. Here, I'll show you," Hermione took back the remote and popped off the back panel. "These are batteries," she pointed to the small cylinders nestled against the springs. "They provide the electricity, or the power to operate it. When these run out, the remote stops working and you add new batteries." She clicked the panel back into place and explained, "When you push a button, that sends a radio signal which the TV interprets and executes it. You have to make sure you aim it at the screen or it won't receive the signal." She handed the remote back to Narcissa.

"I see," she said, turning it over in her hands. "And what can the television be used for?"

"Well," Hermione began, "you can watch news programs, or fictional programs—like theatre but on a screen instead of a stage. There are also educational programs."

Hermione was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door and they both flinched at the noise. Feeling ludicrously cowardly for the racing of her heart, Hermione stood to open the door and found two waiters staring at her. She pulled the door wide open and watched with wide eyes as they pushed in two white cloth-covered trolleys with silver cloches sitting on top.

The two young men spread a crisp white tablecloth over the small table by the window and unloaded the dishes, setting out platters of toast and fruit and yoghurt and eggs and sausage and Hermione blushed at the magnitude of Narcissa's order. The woman in question was watching silently from her standing position next to the bed, apparently not at all phased by the two dozen plates that didn't have a hope of fitting on the table.

"You can just leave the rest on the trolley, if that's alright," Hermione interjected after the two boys began to fuss over the numerous platters. They nodded and wheeled the one empty trolley out into the corridor. Hermione thanked them and quickly shut the door.

When she turned around, Narcissa was leaning over the table and inspecting the plates. "This looks lovely," she determined after a moment.

Hermione couldn't hold back. "Why did you order so much?"

"I wasn't sure what you would like," answered Narcissa without pause as she sat. She looked up to meet Hermione's eyes where she stood by the door. "Come eat," she instructed gently. "You need nourishment." She gave her a friendly smile and Hermione stumbled forward, dropping herself into the seat opposite.

There was a bowl of sliced fruit sitting in front of her, and the vibrancy of the colours reminded Hermione that all she'd had to eat for a month was bread and the occasional wrinkly apple. Looking at this fresh, hot food made Hermione both hungry and nauseous. She picked slowly at a strawberry, marvelling at the sweetness and the tartness. It was so much richer than anything she'd eaten in ages.

Hermione allowed herself to savour the food for ten minutes, but her impatience and anxiety won over her hunger and she sat back in her seat to look at Narcissa who was focused on pouring herself a cup of tea.

"Narcissa," Hermione forced her hoarse voice to be strong and commanding. "Why are you helping me?"


	8. Truce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm very sorry about the long wait! I've been traveling like mad and I'm busy with rehearsals for a production I'm in and flying all over the place. Thank you so much for your reviews and I can't wait to hear what you think of this chapter. Hopefully it won't be too long until the next one...
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Mentioned execution, racism, mentioned starvation

Narcissa's hands froze on the teapot and her eyes closed, her face conveying an expression of pain. She exhaled and set the teapot down, suddenly seeming exhausted. Hermione's anxiety mounted exponentially.

"I cannot say." Narcissa declared finally.

"Why not?" Hermione barely allowed Narcissa time to breathe before she continued her interrogation. "Because you don't want to tell me or because you don't know?"

Narcissa's eyes were fixed on the table, though she looked like she was seeing through it and into another world entirely. "Both" she said quietly. "I can barely work out the reasons myself, let alone explain them to another."

"Why did you help me? Are you on my side?"

At that question, Narcissa's head snapped up and she gave Hermione a look of some of the most intense sadness she'd ever seen. "You do not know what it was like to live among them—to cohabitate with _him_. You cannot imagine the atmosphere, the horrors and unspeakable actions which were executed with glee. To see you there, a peer of my own son… I could not bear it."

Hermione stared Narcissa down across the table, almost daring the other woman to assume Hermione was naïve to the ways of the Death Eaters. Part of her was proud that her assumptions about Narcissa's motivation were somewhat correct, but she was not yet satisfied. When Narcissa did not continue, Hermione interjected,

"Alright, but why are you here now? Why did you help me escape? Do you oppose Voldemort?"

Narcissa flinched and pressed a hand to her forehead in distress. "Please, do not say that name!"

"If you're going to stay with me, you'd better get used to hearing that name," snapped Hermione sourly. "Or are you not going to stay? Are you going to run away from me, too?"

Hermione was shocked by her own words. Her voice was full of bitter venom and her emotions were turbulent; she was taken aback by how desperately she didn't want Narcissa to abandon her. Naturally it made sense, considering this was the one person in the world who was helping her, but the severity of her reaction was nonetheless unexpected.

"I will not leave you," Narcissa answered firmly. "But I am not here due to political convictions."

Hermione frowned. "Then why are you here?" More gently, she added, "Please, I need to know if I can trust you."

Narcissa took a few slow breaths, as though the very discussion was draining her energy. She was silent for many long moments and each word sounded strained as she slowly answered, "I am here because I can no longer stand by as the innocent are harmed. I wish for this war—for this suffering to be over, and I do not believe that it will cease if the Dark Lord is victorious."

Hermione took a minute to process Narcissa's answer, then hesitantly summarized it aloud. "So you're on my side because you think that if we win, if Voldemort is defeated—" Hermione ignored Narcissa's cringe and went on, "it will lead to fewer deaths."

Narcissa gave a tentative nod.

"You realise that if we fail and Voldemort wins, we'll both be executed. There will be absolutely no way to claim you are innocent in his eyes."

Narcissa nodded again.

"So, what about the fact that it means having to ally yourself with me?" Hermione rushed on. "Me, a Mudblood witch," Narcissa had the grace to look affronted by Hermione's use of the slur, but Hermione did not falter for a moment. "It goes against everything you were ever taught, your very way of life, but you're going to throw it all away simply because you're sick of the carnage?"

Narcissa frowned and huffed in frustration. "I will not lie and claim that I believe purity of blood to be irrelevant," she began, her tone a bit more firm than it had been before, "but I do not believe it warrants the destruction and terrorism carried out by the Dark Lord and his followers."

"And your family? What about them? You're going to leave them, too?" Hermione felt the slightest bit guilty for bringing up such a sensitive topic in the midst of a tense debate, but she was desperate to work out Narcissa's motives and the extent of her trust.

Narcissa's response was feral. "Do not _dare_ suggest that I would abandon my family in an act of fear or selfishness!" she hissed, giving Hermione a cold glare. "I would do no such thing for you, nor for the Dark Lord. I am here because of my love for my son, not in spite of it." Lifting her chin, Narcissa took a sip of tea and Hermione looked down to her lap.

"I understand you want to save Draco," said Hermione more compassionately, "and that your concern from him has nothing to do with politics. I don't blame you for what you've done to help him, or think of you as cowardly for it. It's rather brave, actually." She gave Narcissa a timid smile from across the table, hoping to soothe the wounds she'd inflicted with her harsh words.

The woman appeared to be surprised by Hermione's change in demeanour and quick inclination to kindness. Narcissa's eyes widened noticeably and she seemed momentarily speechless by Hermione's empathy; Hermione guessed that it wasn't a common trait in the Death Eater's den. She was probably more familiar with backstabbing and manipulation than friendliness. Hermione now felt personally responsible for proving to Narcissa that humanity was better.

"Thank you," Narcissa said softly, earnestly; clearly very touched by Hermione's words. The atmosphere between them suddenly felt far less strained. "Though I believe you should know that while I am dedicated to the welfare of my son, I do not share the same concern for my husband." Narcissa sighed sadly as Hermione listened with curiosity. "I'm afraid he turned cold many years ago. The Dark Lord has blackened him with fear and paranoia; there is nothing that can be done for him."

Narcissa's words pulled Hermione back to her memory of the man in question hunting her down in the Department of Mysteries, flanked by his comrades, and her blood turned cold. Yet despite her knowledge of Lucius Malfoy's actions, she could not help but feel a tinge of sadness at his wife's resignation towards him. That she had lost all hope for his redemption seemed tragic and Hermione wondered how many other marriages were casualties of this war.

"Very well," Hermione said, effectively concluding the debate. Both women relaxed and Hermione nibbled at a slice of peach from the bowl of fruit, relieved that Narcissa had not revealed any abhorrent ideologies in the course of their discussion. The prospect of being abandoned by her only—what was Narcissa, anyway? A friend? Another victim of war? Unwilling ally? Regardless, Hermione knew that they would not survive long without the other.

"I loathe to think that you associate me with the Dark Lord or his actions." Narcissa whispered after a silent pause. "I bear no mark of any tyrant, and I shall never yoke myself to any master such as he."

Hermione didn't know what to say to that. It felt like such a deeply intimate confession and any sort of verbal response seemed inadequate. She stared at Narcissa and found her gazing forlornly into her cup of tea.

"I know," Hermione said slowly and just as softly. More strongly, she continued, "I know you never were and never will be allied to any of them."

"I beg you not to dismiss me or my value as a friend," Hermione's eyebrows rose at the word but Narcissa went on, "simply because I have an unsavoury history and my ideologies may occasionally conflict with yours." Narcissa met Hermione's eyes and Hermione felt like this was the moment of understanding she'd needed, to deeply know for certain that they were on the same side.

Hermione nodded and gave her a small smile. "I think your unique viewpoint will be helpful, actually," she suggested optimistically, her tone becoming more conversational as the heat of their debate dissipated.

"I certainly hope it will be," answered Narcissa, reaching to take a sip of tea. Hermione had the distinct impression that they'd returned to casual breakfast conversation and began to eat a piece of toast.

"This jam is very good," commented Hermione.

Narcissa smiled in amusement, obviously noticing Hermione's poorly concealed attempt to move onto easier topics. "Yes, it is." Pointing to a platter of pastries, Narcissa said, "You must try the _pain au chocolat_ ; it really is quite wonderful."

Hermione took a warm pastry and sunk her teeth into it, the chocolate blissfully melting across her tongue. Her turbulent emotions were beginning to settle and for the first time she felt as though she and Narcissa were on an equal footing and, against all odds, they would be okay.

* * *

"I don't think I can eat anymore," declared Hermione forty minutes later.

"Are you sure?" Narcissa frowned. "You have lost so much weight in the past month."

Hermione sighed. "I don't think it would be wise to eat much more after going so long with so little," she smiled gratefully for Narcissa's concern.

"Very well, but you must take care to eat more as your strength returns."

Hermione was touched by Narcissa's obvious concern and gave her a nod of promise.

Narcissa seemed satisfied. "Very good," she said in a business-like tone and set about stacking all the dirty plates. But after a moment of thought, she appeared to be rather clueless. "How do we dispose of these dishes?"

Hermione smiled. "We leave them outside the door and someone will come to collect them."

"Similar to a house elf," Narcissa mused thoughtfully and Hermione couldn't help but cringe. Narcissa noticed this and smiled wryly. "Ah, now I remember: Draco spoke at length of your endeavour to liberate the house elves."

Hermione blushed, feeling rather self-conscious as she tried to defend herself. "The enslavement of another species is cruel and unfair," she responded, feeling rather silly for being the Hogwarts know-it-all in a Muggle hotel with a Pureblood witch. It was like two bizarre universes clashing together in a confusing an inconceivable encounter. "The wait staff who work here are paid for their services and are treated with respect and dignity by their employers and patrons."

"And this is how you believe it should be for house elves in the Wizarding World," Narcissa concluded, still smiling in amusement from across the table. Hermione almost wished she would get angry; her friendliness felt like a dead-end and she didn't know how to react.

"Yes, more or less," she stated plainly.

Narcissa hummed in consideration and stood, moving the platters onto the empty trolley and pushing it to the door. Hermione watched, trying to decode the woman's reaction. Decades of practice at crafting facades had made Narcissa an impossible book to read and Hermione, whose speciality was supposed to be books, was rather frustrated and puzzled.

"Would you get the door for me, please?"

"Yes, of course," Hermione stood from her seat and noted happily that for the first time in ages, the action didn't trigger any dizziness. With more strength in her step, she held the door open for Narcissa and helped set out the trolley and dishes in the corridor against the bland wallpaper. Hermione found herself studying Narcissa carefully, but all she could discern was a look of contemplation in the older woman's tired eyes.

"What do you think?" Hermione blurted as they went back inside their room.

"Pardon?"

"About the house elf thing," Hermione clarified, feeling exceedingly foolish.

"There are many who would dismiss the merit of your idea simply because of your heritage," Narcissa stated bluntly. "And while I certainly think that your opinion—not only on this particular matter, but many other magical ones as well—demonstrates a certain ignorance as to the ways of Wizarding society," Hermione's gaze hardened at the mild insult. "I can certainly see the benefits of your proposition and do not think that it should automatically be disqualified, however. Should it ever come to fruition, I should be interested to see how it unfolds."

Hermione spoke slowly, confused by the contradicting sentiments in Narcissa's answer. "So you think it's possible and that my ideas aren't automatically worthless because I'm Muggleborn?"

"Yes, I suppose that would be a more concise way of putting it."

Hermione gave a short nod, mulling over Narcissa's words. Hermione hadn't expected such a well thought-out answer—perhaps it was rather prejudiced, but she'd always thought of Narcissa Malfoy as a bit of a trophy wife who blindly followed the will of men surrounding her. The Narcissa with her now, who gave insightful comments and was what Hermione could only describe as _friendly_ was a rather pleasant surprise.

"Have I offended you?" Hermione looked up to find Narcissa frowning in concern.

"No!" answered Hermione quickly. "Not at all. Sorry, I was just thinking."

Narcissa relaxed. "Good. I am sorry if I ever say something impolite. It is entirely unintentional, I assure you, and please do not hesitate to instruct me should I make a mistake." With a look of infinite earnestness which made Hermione feel safer than she had in a very long time, Narcissa added more gently, "I am trying, I promise."

Hermione smiled. "I know."


	9. Restlessness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've been out the last month with a busy performance schedule, a concussion, a broken computer, as well as traveling and starting school. Whew! Updates may be a bit slower from here on out, but rest assured I have not abandoned this story and would not do so without letting you know. Thank you so much for all your kind reviews and well wishes :)
> 
> So, on with the adventure, then...
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Mentioned genocide, mentioned imprisonment, anxiety symptoms

They sat by the window and watched the world spin past them, amazed by the way Muggle London operated without the burden of impending war and genocide. They felt like intruders upon a utopia in which they had no rightful place. To pollute the blissful obliviousness of the innocent was a crime neither would dare commit; they had experienced too much to ever wish it upon another.

An hour was all they could manage of peace before the nagging in their minds became too much. Hermione was restless remaining in one place; she was keen to cover their tracks as quickly as possible. Narcissa, too, was squirming with anxious impatience.

"What do you propose we do now, Hermione?" Narcissa's voice was soft and caressed the silence rather than broke it.

"We need to leave here," Hermione sighed sadly, noting with no little emotion that Narcissa had addressed her by her first name again. It was a reminder of their newfound… intimacy. It was the only word that fit. Hermione couldn't bring herself to return the compliment just yet.

"May I ask where you and your friends were hiding when you were snatched?" Narcissa asked somewhat awkwardly; she clearly didn't know how to discuss Harry and Ron.

Hermione ignored the awkwardness and plainly answered with a sigh, "We were in hiding in the woods. We were looking for… tools that would help us defeat Voldemort."

Narcissa barely flinched at the name this time, though she did blanche a little. But she didn't press further and appeared to be thinking. Hermione's anxiety grew as Narcissa's pondering went on in silence; if they didn't have a plan soon Hermione was liable to unravel hopelessly. Her new sensitivity and delicacy was frightening.

"I have been unable to track international events consistently with all the goings-on here in England, but I believe that Wizarding Greece is stable."

It took Hermione a second to process Narcissa's seemingly irrelevant statement. "What? You think we should leave?" she blurted after a minute's deliberation.

"But of course," Narcissa responded, eyes wide in surprise at Hermione's unexpectedly negative reaction. "Surely you do not wish to stay in a country full of such strife, where you are being hunted for the crime of your very existence?"

Hermione blinked, emotions beginning to form. "But what good will leaving do? How can we defeat Voldemort from _Greece_?"

"How in Merlin's name do you expect to defeat the Dark Lord from anywhere, Hermione? Surely you must see that the two of us together are putting ourselves in needless danger by attempting it, and our chances of survival—let alone success—are abysmally low."

"You want to run away!" cried Hermione. "You want to go hide from the fighting! That's cowardice! That's—that's pathetic!"

"Hermione!" Narcissa was shocked by Hermione's temper. The witch's eyes were burning with angry tears and it seemed so unusual that she would be this easily upset. Of course Hermione was famous for her passions, but this seemed far too severe. The evidence of what the stress of captivity had done to her character only further distressed the two. Hermione was afraid of her newfound volatility, and Narcissa troubled by it.

"I can't leave!" Hermione sobbed. "Please, do not make me leave. I can't abandon this. If you want to run away, then fine. Go. I'm staying here."

Her point made, Hermione took a moment to wipe the hot tears she found her cheekbones. Her emotions were more turbulent than she ever remembered them being and she didn't know how to handle it. She'd always been the cool, level-headed one. What would it mean if she lost that?

"I am not going to leave you here on your own, Hermione," Narcissa responded firmly. "But I cannot condone your decision to thrust yourself into this violence when you have an opportunity to escape!"

Hermione wanted to roll her eyes, but resisted the urge. It seemed like such a bratty, childish thing to do and she had a feeling that it would only make Narcissa dislike her more than she already did. "I don't need your approval or permission," Hermione said carefully, hoping it didn't sound too teenager-y.

"I would not insult your intelligence or maturity by implying that you did," Narcissa answered easily. "I am not your mother," her nose wrinkled, "nor do I wish to be." Hermione didn't know what to make of that, but didn't have time to think as Narcissa kept talking. "Will you not at least consider going abroad? We would be safe. You are not expected or required to win this war single-handedly; you are allowed to save yourself."

"That's the most Slytherin thing I've ever heard." Hermione smirked.

Narcissa made an odd expression. "Perhaps, but that does not inherently mean it is without merit."

"That isn't what I meant," Hermione defended quickly, suddenly regretting her joke and realising that perhaps it hadn't been a joke at all.

"Of course not," answered Narcissa, and that was the end of it. "If you do not intend to leave Britain, then what in the world do you have in mind, Hermione?" The question was posed with the slightest hint of sarcasm and Hermione didn't know what to make of it.

"Well, Harry and Ron and I were hiding in woods and things." Hermione wanted to punch herself for sounding so foolish. "We were looking for… items that Dumbledore advised us to find. Without them, Voldemort will be impossible to defeat."

Noting Hermione's hesitance, Narcissa's brow furrowed. "I see," was all she said. "And were you given any advice as to how to locate these items?"

"Not exactly," Hermione stuttered. "But we were able to deduce what and where they were, and then destroy them accordingly."

"There are many, then?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes. Six in total, and we already destroyed…" frowning, Hermione counted them in her head. _The diary, the ring, the locket… One, two…_ "Three."

Narcissa raised her eyebrows. "Only half?"

Hermione bristled, defensive. "Well, they are _very_ difficult to find and destroy, especially when we had to be so inconspicuous and had no resources!"

"I understand," Narcissa said dismissively. "But it certainly leaves much to be done if you intend to defeat the Dark Lord."

"That may be the case, but it's the only plan I've got, unless you have anything better in mind?" Hermione smirked as Narcissa shrugged good-naturedly.

"You have more information than I," answered she simply.

"Who knows—maybe Harry and Ron destroyed some while I was—" Hermione faltered, suddenly trapped by her expansive vocabulary. Her eyes widened helplessly as each word flew through her head: _Captured, imprisoned, held captive, held hostage, taken, gone…._

Narcissa's demeanour changed instantly, going from impatient teasing to deep concern. Standing, she moved the two paces to where Hermione sat in the opposite armchair and placed a hand on the young witch's shoulder. Hermione found herself instinctively leaning against Narcissa's front and allowing herself to be soothed by the woman's gentle hand along her shoulder.

"We will continue as you have been advised, then," Narcissa promised gently. Hermione nodded against her robes, excusing her emotions by the fact that she was still sensitive from her capture and that Narcissa was the only one she had to turn to. "We will stay in Britain, as you wish, and we will continue your task."

The tears still leaking out of her stinging eyes, Hermione sucked in a choked breath and tried to control the tsunami in her bloodstream. Narcissa continued to silently run her hands across Hermione's shaking shoulders and bony back, silent and patient. The idea of a Malfoy comforting Hermione was as foreign as ever and only served to jar her further. She tried to push it out her head and focus on taming her anxieties.

She needed to ground herself in her faultless logic, to construct the walls of a plan that she could navigate in the dark. The last month never happened, she would forget it, repress it, whatever she needed to do to be how she was before and not this fragile scrap of a person she was now. The war couldn't afford to have this emotional child in place of Hermione Granger, and Hermione herself was too afraid of what it would mean for herself.

Taking in a breath and pushing it into her lungs and through her limbs, Hermione shut off her tears and sat up straight. Narcissa removed her hands from the witch's shoulders, frowning in concern at Hermione's stiffness. "We should get out of here, then." Hermione said firmly, though her voice was fractured. "As soon as we can. Get supplies, and figure out a solid plan."

Narcissa nodded, more so for the sake of keeping Hermione calm and satisfied than with the actual content of her ideas.

Hermione stood, albeit a little wobbly, from the chair and began bustling around the room, collecting their few possessions and tossing them onto the bed. Watching, Narcissa pursed her lips as Hermione took a moment to steady herself against the wall. She needed medical attention from a certified healer, or even a Muggle, but Narcissa wasn't sure how to convince Hermione to get treatment.

"Well?" Hermione said impatiently, turning to look at Narcissa by the window. A sly grin overtook her features as she asked, "Are you ready to go shopping, _Narcissa_?"

A true smile broke Narcissa's concern, the first in months. It felt foreign upon her lips.

"Come on, then!" Hermione chided playfully, smothering her anxieties with the tiny fragment of joy that was born of scurrying around a London hotel room with Narcissa Malfoy.


	10. Checking Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello again! Remember me? I'm sorry it took so long to get this chapter out-I was in a psychiatric hospital for a week and I've been focusing on recovery and all that good stuff. I want to thank you for all your kind reviews and follows and favourites, though; I'm very flattered and I can't wait to hear what you think of this chapter! :)
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Dissociation, anxiety, fire

Hermione poured her concentration and energy into organising their meagre possessions and repairing the room. She stood out on the balcony for a moment, stunned to feel the spring sunlight on her skin, and summoned a few newspapers and rubbish bags from the ground below as London Muggles obliviously went about their business. Her magic felt awkward and haphazard, causing the objects to fly around unusually in the air. Hermione hoped that they looked like they were being swept away by the wind, as she’d intended, despite the fact that there was barely a breeze at all.

            She and Narcissa debated over the style of the curtains as they tried to transfigure the newspaper scraps into a replacement for the one that had become Hermione’s nightgown. Hermione thought the shade wasn’t quite right (just a bit too yellow), while Narcissa was adamant that the pattern they’d decorated it with was far more complex than the original. Eventually, they made a few slight adjustments and let it be, though Hermione did spy Narcissa discretely flicking her wand at the hanging material once or twice.

            After Narcissa showered, Hermione restored the bath to its usual depth and turned the comb back into the metal loop on the wall. Eventually, she couldn’t avoid the tragic heap of her clothes on the damp tiles. Sitting on the closed toilet, she stared at the pile of fabric. Should she destroy them? They were the only thing she had left that was her own. To get rid of them felt like signing the death certificate of Hermione Granger, whoever she had been. But to keep them was imprudent. She could hardly wear them, and she doubted that they could be transfigured into anything worthwhile. Not to mention the psychological effects couldn’t be healthy.

            Her decision made, Hermione rummaged through the pockets for anything valuable and found nothing; the transfigured Muggle money was next to the sink. She took it and put it in the pocket of her newly transfigured cotton shorts.

            Hermione ceremoniously placed the rubbish bin in the centre of the bathroom and opened the lid, then levitated her clothes into it with her head held high.

            A breath of relief escaped her.

            “ _Incendio!_ ” she snapped, smiling maliciously as the jet of flame flew towards the tattered hem of her jeans and instantly ignited them and the rest of her clothes. Hermione watched them burn for but a moment before flicking the metal bin lid shut with her wand and fanning the air to clear it of smoke, particularly near the detector.

            A smug expression on her face, she stepped out of the bathroom, her thoughts on making sure the room looked as it had when they’d entered.

            “Are you alright?”

            “Huh?” Heart racing, Hermione’s eyes flew to Narcissa, who was seated in the armchair and looking very distressed. She’d transfigured her clothes back into the Muggle pantsuit. Hermione swallowed, forcing herself to calm. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

            “You sounded upset,” Narcissa said carefully as she eyed Hermione from across the room.

            Shrugging dismissively, Hermione answered, “I’m fine. Now, is this everything?” she gestured to the mattress, which had a few hair pins and the outer layer of Narcissa’s robes. Hermione’s trainers were on the ground, by the bed. The sight of them, tattered and torn, made Hermione’s nose wrinkle.

            “Yes, I’m afraid this is all.” Narcissa confirmed sadly, standing to look down at their possessions.

            “Okay,” Hermione said briskly, picking up the dark outer robes and holding it up. The fabric was light and silky, yet clearly magically enhanced to keep out the chill. “We can use this as a bag,” Hermione explained as she pointed her wand at it and focused on transfiguring it into a tote.

            “I don’t think that would be helpful,” Narcissa chided, reaching out to lower Hermione’s wand.

            Hermione bristled, “Why not?”                                                              

            “Because those are a witch’s robes, and they have been enchanted so that they are difficult to transfigure, especially if they are not your own.” Explained Narcissa, “If one could just transform their wardrobe at will, there would never be a need to buy new robes and designers would go out of business.”

            “Well how was I supposed to know that!” Hermione snapped, feeling turbulent anger trying to wrestle its way out from between her ribs.

            Narcissa’s eyes widened, but she attempted to maintain her composure. “Did you never try to magically alter your school robes?”

            “Why would I? They were spelled to fit me perfectly! And I’m not one of those girls who would try to shrink her skirt for attention!”

            Narcissa visibly flinched and took a step backwards. Hermione gasped for breath, terrified by her temper and frustrate by the tears burning her eyes yet again.

            “Hermione, please,” Narcissa tried to sooth her from a few paces away. “You are not yourself; you must allow yourself the time you need to heal, please—“

            “I’m fine,” Hermione interrupted, smearing away one of the tears with the heel of her hand. She ducked her head, trying to avoid eye contact, and snatched one of the pillows from the head of the bed. Yanking it out, she aimed her trembling wand at the pillowcase and transfigured it into a lopsided handbag. It was an odd, orange-brown shade and the hue was unevenly fluctuating across the fabric.

            Hermione haphazardly stuffed their few belongings into the bag and slung it over her shoulder as she stumbled into her shoes.

            “There. All ready.” She gave Narcissa a defiant look, hoping she came across as determined and collected rather than afraid.

            “Very well,” Narcissa conceded.

            Without another glance, Hermione led them out the room and down the corridor to the lifts. Hermione’s heart raced severely when the doors opened with a chime and she found herself standing next to a gentleman in a business suit. He gave the two women a polite nod as they entered, but Hermione struggled to return it. The way his dark hair shined in the light made her throat constrict and each breath felt like it had to force its way into her lungs. Vague images began flashing behind her eyelids in quick succession, one after the other. Harry, then Ron, and Malfoy, and now all the Death Eaters who had ever mistreated her….

            Narcissa discretely wound her arm through Hermione’s elbow and helped guide her into the foyer when the doors parted. They approached the desk and a chipper young woman gave them a bright smile. “Good morning! Checking out?”

            Hermione nodded dumbly as Narcissa placed their papers on the marble desktop. The lady looked at their information and then tapped a few keys on her computer.

            “Looks like you haven’t got a credit card on file…” she said politely as her brows furrowed.

            Narcissa was rather clueless, so Hermione placed the crumpled, transfigured money on top of the papers with clumsy movements. The woman took the notes in her hand and looked through them, frowning as she did so and appearing uncomfortable. Hermione wondered what the issue was. Had she transfigured them into ten pound notes and there weren’t enough? She didn’t even know what the price for their room was. Probably more than what she had handed over.

            In an instant, the woman’s face changed from discomfort to blank indifference and she put the notes in the drawer with glassy eyes. In her peripheral vision, Hermione saw the edge of Narcissa’s wand slip beneath her sleeve.

            “Alright, you’re all checked out. Have a wonderful day, ladies.” The woman chirped, her eyes no longer glassy and blank.

            “Thank you,” Narcissa answered with a curt nod, and she rested her hand on Hermione’s waist to guide her around and out the foyer.

            Hermione followed without protest, her mind and body not quite in sync. The way the light sparkled on the marble tiles, the movement of pedestrians on the footpath and the new colours around her were too much for her brain to process. She couldn’t possibly manage all the incoming stimulus, so she tried to simply block it out and let Narcissa guide her.

            “Wait,” Hermione stopped suddenly and Narcissa turned to her with concern. “The clock behind the desk—it’s nine o’clock in the morning?”

            “Yes,” Narcissa nodded.

            “But that means I only slept what—five, six hours?”

            “I believe around five, yes.”

            “But I need much more than that!” Hermione’s voice echoed unexpectedly off the glittering marble and Narcissa stepped closer and ducked her head, trying to maintain their discretion.

            “I agree, but you woke a little after seven and showed no intent of resting any longer.”

            Hermione blinked. “I don’t feel that tired..?” it came out as more of a question; she couldn’t understand the new rules her body seemed to operate by.

            “I imagine it will take some time for your system to recover,” Narcissa answered crisply, encouraging Hermione to walk again. Together, they stepped out onto the sunny London street. 

The sound and light and heat assaulted Hermione’s senses the second she stepped out into the real world. The shock paralysed her and she stood frozen and tense, eyes wide and unfocused ahead of her. Narcissa watched her with concern and reached the arm on her back around to hold her shoulders and guide her.

            “Come,” she instructed in a gentle whisper to Hermione’s ear. Hermione stumbled somewhat blindly and earned a few glares form passers-by as they slowly made their way down the London footpath. Narcissa squinted at the shops they passed by, trying to work out their purpose. After walking a block and a half, she peered through a window and entered a shop, Hermione weakly clinging to her side.

            They were immediately bathed in the scent of coffee and the busy chatter of morning commuters. Hermione blinked at the change of atmosphere and stumbled behind Narcissa, who was anxiously pushing her towards a heavy wodden door with a feminine silhouette embossed in the middle. Pushing open the door, Narcissa made a noise of frustration to see that a woman was washing her hands at the sink and there were only two stalls. The woman’s reflection in the mirror became startled as she spotted Narcissa, whose eyes were alight and posture stern, flanked by a rather feeble Hermione. The woman’s wide eyes followed Narcissa as she pulled Hermione into the largest stall and slid the lock behind them.

            “ _Muffliato,_ ” hissed Narcissa as she guided Hermione towards the toilet and directed her to sit on its lid. With another glance at the flimsy metal stall, she added a Notice Me Not charm to ensure their privacy.

            “Hermione,” she said gently, kneeling on the ground before the young lady in question. “You are safe, you are well, you are free. Please believe me when I promise you that you are not in harm’s way.”

            Hermione took a shaky breath and whispered, “I don’t know what’s happening.” She inhaled again, trying to ease her trembling and rushed on: “It’s like my head isn’t attached to my body anymore. I don’t understand what people are saying or what I’m seeing—nothing makes sense! How is it possible that I could get until now as the bravest and most clever, but now I’m a useless, broken mess?”

            “You are not broken, Hermione,” Narcissa assured her firmly. “Nor are you useless, or a mess. You have not lost any of your bravery or cleverness; you’re overwhelmed, indeed, as you should be.” Narcissa took Hermione’s clammy hands into her own and squeezed them gently. “Do you feel my hands? Focus on me. We’re in Muggle London, together, and we’re going to be alright. I need you to help me, Hermione,” confessed Narcissa earnestly.

            “I don’t know how to do that,”

            “Yes, you do. But you must allow yourself to relax, both physically and mentally. Let the fear and anxiety drift out of you; focus on only one thing at a time. Breathe.”

            Hermione nodded and closed her eyes as she tried to breathe steadily and wrestle her thoughts into order. She visualised collecting all her fear and anxiety and the horrible images running on a loop in her imagination and pouring them into her lungs. With every exhale, they floated out of her body and drifted far, far away. Hopefully to a place where they wouldn’t bother anyone else.

            Hermione opened her eyes slowly and found herself staring directly into Narcissa’s wide pupils.

            “Okay, I think that helped a bit.”

            “Good,” Narcissa smiled. “Can you tell me your name?”

            “Hermione Granger? Or whatever’s left of her, at least,” Hermione snorted and Narcissa’s lips curved in amusement.

            “Can you tell me where you are?”

            “In a public bathroom,” Hermione’s nose wrinkled. “In Muggle London.”

            Narcissa nodded. “And who am I?”

            Here, Hermione’s tongue faltered, but it was not because she couldn’t name the blonde face before her. If anything, Hermione was more certain of Narcissa’s presence than anything else, even though it was probably the most bizarre thing in her world right now.

            Naming her by her first name felt impossibly strange. Too intimate, too personal, too so many other things. But “Mrs. Malfoy” was far too formal, and the very name made Hermione’s skin crawl. But to address her by her maiden name would be a statement in itself, and Hermione was far too worn out to consider the connotations it would produce and how Narcissa might react.

            Truthfully, it was a tiny issue that was hardly significant in this unravelling world, but it felt like a monumental symbol of their alliance; one that Hermione was afraid to understand. If she couldn’t even walk down a street, then how was she able to manage the foundation of this unexpected relationship?

            “You are Narcissa,” she said plainly. Her voice echoed off the cheap bathroom tiles and the word felt strange upon her tongue and lips. She felt like she might even be blushing.

            “Very good,” Narcissa said softly, and she stood. “Do you feel ready to leave?”

            “I suppose,” Hermione sighed and stood on unsteady legs. The toilet flushed behind her and Narcissa jumped, a hand flying to her heart.

            “Why in Merlin’s name did it do that?”

            Hermione laughed. “It has a sensor on it that detects movement, don’t worry.” Narcissa only looked more confused which made Hermione chuckle, and the humour lifted her spirits wonderfully. The lights and noises still felt too bright and too loud and her head was full of a dense fog which prevented more than one simple thought at a time, but she was no longer panicking, and she forced herself to accept this as an improvement.

            Hermione opened the stall door and Narcissa followed behind her. A young woman at the sink holding the hand of a toddler stared at them with wide eyes as they emerged together, but Hermione could only give her a laughing smile and let the heavy door swing shut at her and Narcissa’s backs.


	11. Merging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I've been churning out lots of chapters and they're sitting on my harddrive, eager to see the light of day. I'd like to get a more regular update schedule, so hopefully that's something to look forward to. Consider it a holiday gift :)
> 
> I can't wait to hear your thoughts as these two get underway.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Anxiety, dissociation

Hermione wanted nothing more than to wrap herself in this coat and hibernate until she felt well enough to face her life. Obviously, this wasn't a viable option, and Hermione smiled sadly as she took the coat off the rack and folded it over her elbow. It looked durable and versatile, not to mention it had plenty of pockets.

Turning, Hermione opened her mouth to ask if Narcissa had found something suitable, but her throat seized when she found herself alone. Frantically, Hermione scanned the department store, searching for the tell-tale streak of blonde among the racks of generic outfits. She felt her heart begin to race and her thoughts accelerate, but before they could completely lose control she spotted Narcissa's pale head in the far corner, clearly inspecting something.

Hermione hurried over to her companion on the other side of the store and breathlessly stuttered, "There you are,"

Narcissa turned, eyebrows raised and then furrowed in concern at Hermione's state. "I'm sorry," she offered apologetically. "I was under the impression that we were to shop independently."

"I don't think that would be the best option," Hermione replied matter-of-factly and hoping that her logic would override her irrational anxiety. "We should stick together, make sure we're safe."

Narcissa nodded and gave a small smile before turning back to the garment she was holding up against the light. Hermione scanned Narcissa's selection curiously.

"I'm not sure that an evening gown is the most… practical choice for what we need."

"I know," Narcissa sighed. "But I must admit, these Muggles have an admirable sense of fashion when they put their minds to it." She placed the wooden hanger back in its place against the wall and turned to Hermione. "What have you found?"

"Coat," Hermione sorted through the things in her arms held them up. "Two pairs of pants, some shirts and—" she fumbled as she tried to balance all the items and blushed a bit, "and underwear."

Narcissa nodded. "Can you show me where to find these things?"

"Sure," Hermione answered, slightly taken aback by Narcissa's direct appeal for help. She wondered how long it would be before she became accustomed to this woman's politeness. She couldn't deny that she was still on guard, ready to deflect whatever insult or slur left the Malfoy woman's pretty lips.

* * *

"Once again, I am amazed by the Muggles' ingenuity. I am not sure I would be so creative without magic."

Hermione couldn't help but stare. Narcissa was crouched over, reading the advertised information on the side of a plastic package, and hence oblivious to Hermione's astonished eyes.

"I don't think I ever could have anticipated you to be so…" Hermione's head tilted as she searched for the word and Narcissa looked up at her with eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"You said the same thing this morning, didn't you?" Narcissa turned back to the shelves she was examining, clearly self-conscious.

With a sigh, Hermione sat down next to the woman and leaned back against the metal shelves. Staring blindly at the ceiling, she mused, "I think it would be more accurate to say I interrogated you this morning."

Narcissa's answer was what could only be described as a dainty snort.

Smirking, Hermione continued, "Explaining your motives to me and watching you consistently carry them out are two very different things." The lights felt too harsh against her pupils and Hermione closed her eyes, suddenly aware that she was exhausted. Perhaps that was where her spontaneous honesty was coming from.

"I am gratified to hear you believe I am doing well." Narcissa admitted softly. Hermione heard a shift beside her and suspected Narcissa had turned and was now leaning against the shelves like Hermione.

"I keep waiting for you to slip and start smearing Mudbloods or something." Hermione could hear the movement of other customers, their footsteps and the squeaking of their trolleys, and thought that she and Narcissa must look like a very odd pair. Oh well. She was too tired and resigned to think much of it. Given her ceaseless anxiety of the past few hours, she was grateful for this peace.

"I will never again use that word," swore Narcissa. "And I am not my husband." She paused before continuing and Hermione held her breath. "Truthfully, I am not fully convinced of his commitment to this dark movement. Perhaps he once was, but no longer."

Hermione tensed at the mention of Lucius, both due to the memories his image produced and also the very personal direction this conversation was moving in. She didn't feel ready to broach this subject and she wasn't sure she'd ever want to. Right now, there was only enough room in her brain for one priority at a time and at the moment it was survival. If Narcissa Malfoy's marriage (former marriage?) ever moved up the list to the top spot, then Hermione would deal with it when it came.

"I know you have little evidence to believe me, Hermione, but I beg you to trust me."

The tone of Narcissa's voice opened Hermione's eyes and she turned her head to find Narcissa gazing at the floor. Her legs were crossed and she looked perfectly Muggle in her loose dark-wash jeans.

"Actually, I think you've given me plenty of evidence so far." Hermione admitted. With a huff, she pushed herself to her feet and grimaced at her stiff legs. "Come on," she chided, the sombre mood of the conversation dissipating completely. "We haven't picked out a tent yet."

Looking up, Narcissa nodded and turned back to the selection of tents on the shelf and began reciting the specs. Hermione listened attentively and occasionally commented, all the while hovering at Narcissa's side and resting a hand on the woman's shoulder.

* * *

"Muggles may be ingenious," Narcissa mused as she surveyed their full shopping trolley. "But I'm afraid that their technologies are far more cumbersome than ours."

Hermione smiled. "True, but lucky for us we have the best of both worlds." Running her hands admirably along the smooth material of her new bag, Hermione continued, "Everything should fit in here. We won't be weighed down by all this." She gestured to the trolley which was overflowing with bulky boxes and packages of a myriad of supplies: a tent, some cooking tools, food rations, and more.

"We should get going," Hermione suggested after a pause. They'd been there too long for Hermione's comfort.

"Yes, I agree," Narcissa concurred. A grin suddenly overtook her features and she reached into her back pocket. "And I believe this should help us with the transaction."

She held out the object for Hermione's inspection and Hermione's eyes widened.

Taking it into her hands, she hissed, "Where did you get this?"

"I saw a gentleman use it to purchase a drink earlier," Narcissa said innocently. "So I summoned it for our use. I made certain he didn't notice."

"Narcissa," Hermione looked from the shiny credit card back to the woman in question. "This is theft."

"Is that not what we have been resorting to thus far? We hardly have a wealth of options."

"Yes, but this is different." Hermione suddenly became very self-conscious and lowered her voice. "This is  _identity theft_. If we try to make a purchase with—" she looked at the embossed letters, "Mr. Frederick Mirvue's credit card, the Muggle law enforcement will be able to track us." With a frantic movement, she gestured to the ceiling. "Do you see those black globes in the ceiling? Those are security cameras. They keep a visual record of everything that happens in this store. It's risky enough that we're here in the first place—the last thing we need is to get the Muggle authorities involved as well as the Wizarding ones!"

Hermione could see it all playing out in her mind: Voldemort and his henchmen grinning sadistically over Muggle security footage of a notably blonde woman and her frizzy-haired accomplice strolling through Muggle London on a shopping trip like they were from some chick-flick. All that was missing was the handsome yet flawed heroes who would bring them to their clichéd happy endings.

"Very well, although I fear that magically altering the memories of every shopkeeper will attract attention. We need some variety in our tactics." Narcissa's gentle yet authoritative voice brought Hermione out of her paranoia and she nodded. Stowing the stolen credit card in her back pocket, she reached for the heavy trolley and began pushing it out of the aisle and towards the checkout.

"Do you have any ideas?"

Narcissa smirked. "I thought you were our resident expert in all things Muggle."

Hermione made a broad turn with the trolley and a smile broke across her lips. "Well," she quipped. "Perhaps I'm in need of a little Pureblood wisdom."

"If this 'wisdom' is what has landed us in a war, then I'm not sure that it would be the most valuable resource." Narcissa commented bitterly.

Hermione shrugged. "We'll take out the racial superiority part then. There must be something useful hiding in all that doctrine."

Smiling lightly, Narcissa answered, "Very well."

Hermione turned the trolley again to a large desk marked "Customer Service." Hoping that her legendary lying skills were still intact, she pulled the credit card out of her back pocket and approached the woman behind the counter.

"Excuse me, but we found this credit card in one of the fitting rooms."

The woman looked up from her monitor screen and took the proffered piece of plastic. "Oh! Thanks for this—I'm sure someone will come looking for it soon." She gave them a friendly smile which Hermione stiffly returned before tugging their trolley away, Narcissa silently trailing behind.

The checkout process was an arduous one, considering the bulk of the items they'd selected. Hermione's guilt climbed with every digit on the register as she watched the price of their purchase escalate to the triple digits and beyond. She tried to sooth herself with logic, but it was only minimally effective.  _Theft this small won't cripple a company… It's necessary to save these Muggles, even though they don't know that…_.

"Looks like you two have quite the trip coming up!" The cashier commented.

Hermione's voice felt choked. "Yeah,"

"Well, you should be prepared for anything with all this stuff." The cashier read out their total and Narcissa handed over a plastic card before Hermione could so much as open her mouth. Hermione felt her heart begin to violently seize in her chest and her palms become cold and sweaty; the intensity of her reaction frightened her more than the actual situation. She was aware of Narcissa's hand settling on her back in a comforting gesture, but it did little to calm her mind. In an instant, she was furious. Did Narcissa listen to  _nothing_?

They were standing in a deserted corridor now. The walls and floor were unglamorous concrete, so it was probably a staff-only part of the building.

Narcissa was holding Hermione's elbow and Hermione wrenched it out of the woman's grasp.

"What were you  _thinking_?!" Her shrill whisper echoed off the concrete. "Didn't you listen to anything I told you?" Narcissa's eyes were wide in surprise and Hermione had the strongest urge to slap her flawless face. Whipping out her wand and aiming it at Narcissa's chest, she took an aggressive posture and continued, "I ought to Obliviate you on the spot and let you live out your days as a Muggle! Clearly if I keep you on my side, you'll get us both killed by the end of the week!"

"Hermione!  _Please_! Listen to yourself! Listen to  _me_ ," Narcissa took a few steps towards Hermione, but the younger witch backed away even faster. "I didn't jeopardize your safety, nor mine, I assure you. I duplicated that card and Imperiused the woman so that she would delete all records of our purchase from the shop's records on that device she was using. There was no illegal transaction."

Hermione was backed against the wall now and it felt as though her lungs were being suffocated by her ribcage as her mind haphazardly tried to sort this new information. "Why didn't you tell me beforehand?" stuttered Hermione after a moment.

"As you said, we didn't have plenty of time," Narcissa answered, concern evident in her voice. "And I did not expect you to react this way."

"Yeah, well neither did I," Hermione retorted, dropping her wand arm and stuffing it back into her pocket. She covered her eyes with her hand and tried to centre herself and calm her breathing. There was still a furious beast in her gut, urging her to fire hexes at Narcissa, and it frightened Hermione. She'd always had a rather unforgiving temper, but she'd also always been able to control it. For the most part, at least. This felt unlike anything she'd experienced; like someone else's anger had been spontaneously injected into her bloodstream. This must be like what Harry felt whenever Voldemort's thoughts seeped into his own. For a moment, Hermione wondered whether she'd been psychologically bonded to a Death Eater without realising it.

"Hermione," Narcissa whispered, and Hermione could tell that she'd moved closer. "I'm very sorry for upsetting you. Are you alright?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "It's okay; I think I'm just tired." She was surprised to find her voice strained and tears burning her eyes again. "I'm really… overwhelmed. It's like I'm not in control of my thoughts or emotions anymore." That was more forthcoming than she'd intended, but Narcissa seemed nothing but understanding. When Hermione opened her eyes, she found compassionate icy blue irises staring back at her.

"You must be kinder to yourself. You need time to recover your strength."

Hermione swiped a hot tear off her cheekbone and took another shuddering breath. "I'll try and keep myself together more. I'm sure it will get better once I've had more rest." She gave a wobbly smile and strode to their trolley, very aware that Narcissa's hand was resting on her shoulder. "I don't remember coming to this place."

"You did seem very distracted," Narcissa mused. "We're in a backroom of the same shop. There are no black domes here, so it was my understanding that we will be undetected."

Hermione looked up to the ceiling and saw nothing but pipes and the occasional light fixture.

"Alright, then," she pulled out her wand. "Let's get to work."


	12. Crowded Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello! I hope this chapter isn't terribly dull. Things are going to get rather interesting very soon though, I promise. I just got discharged from another week in an inpatient facility and it gave me a lot of plotting and writing time! :)
> 
> I can't wait to hear all you thoughts. Your reviews and messages some of my favourite parts of writing.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Anxiety symptoms, mentioned torture

 

"Do you suppose we should keep this?"

"I'm not sure a shopping trolley will be very helpful, do you?"

Narcissa shrugged. "It could be transfigured into something useful."

"I'd rather not take on any superfluous supplies," Hermione grunted as she adjusted the strap on her bag which crossed across her chest. "We should have everything we need in here." She patted the bag on her hip which betrayed no sign of being a hundred times larger on the inside. Thankfully for Hermione's shoulder, it didn't weigh more than a small purse ought to.

Hermione looked up to Narcissa and met her gaze with a jolting silence. They were ready now. There was nothing more to be done here, in the realm of the civilised. It was time to return to the warzone. It was very clear now that Hermione didn't want that; she'd much rather spend her time doing frivolous activities like shopping for camping supplies and educating Narcissa about Muggle life. The realisation was paralysing.

"We should move somewhere else before we apparate so we can't be tracked," suggested Hermione and she was relieved when Narcissa nodded in agreement and guided them through the concrete corridors until they slipped back into the public part of the shop. As they made their way through the aisles, Hermione felt her hands grow clammy and her heart beat harder. It was frustrating that the idea of leaving the Muggle world was frightening. She was a _witch_. She'd devoted her life to proving that she was equal to those of purely magical blood, yet here she was, quivering at the idea of returning to the culture which had been her home since she was eleven years old.

The rational part of her mind pointed out that wishing to stay in the society that wasn't experiencing civil war wasn't exactly illogical or cowardly, but it didn't alleviate her anxiety much. Hermione worked hard not to outwardly betray any sign of her internal conflict as she followed Narcissa down the footpath. They strolled a few blocks until Narcissa glided between two buildings and discretely scurried down a dark alley. Following, Hermione dug her fingernails into the flesh of her palm to force herself to focus on the upcoming task of apparition; she wasn't keen on splinching herself.

"I think this should do," Narcissa whispered in the shadows against the concrete. Hermione nodded, trying to ignore the way the rough, grey walls mimicked the appearance of her cell.

"I agree."

For a moment, they looked at each other, once again confused as to how to transition to the next step. Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again, then finally spoke.

"I have an idea about where we should go, but I'm not sure if it's the best one." That sentence sounded remarkably stupid and Hermione wanted to kick herself for it.

"Explain," coaxed Narcissa.

Hermione sighed. "Before I left, Harry and Ron and I were migrating around a forest I used to spend time in as a child. I know the area well and we seemed to be safe there, but then again it's entirely possible that Death Eaters are aware of this and that they now occupy the wood."

Narcissa's lips pursed as Hermione impatiently awaited her response. After an aggravating moment, the older woman mused, "I have no better alternative. Do you?" Hermione shook her head and Narcissa held out her arm. "Well then, lead the way."

Hermione nodded dumbly and hooked her elbow around Narcissa's. To her surprise, Narcissa slid out of her hold and instead moved her arm to wrap around Hermione's waist. At Hermione's questioning glance, she merely answered, "You are unwell; I doubt a turbulent apparition will do either of us much good." Hermione couldn't deny the logic and allowed her own arm to creep around Narcissa's back. She felt warm and for a moment Hermione's breath was taken away by the comfort of being so close to another.

Her eyes drifted shut and Hermione expelled a deep breath, allowing the tension in her muscles to exit with the air. She wandered back through her memories, past the quarrels between the boys and herself and the times they choked on rationed tea from laughing so hard. Her heart quickly began to ache and she rushed on, until she felt herself settle into the memory of the night watch in early March. At that particular sight, there was a beautiful tree whose trunk was ideally designed for leaning against. As Hermione sat there, encircled by the twisted roots, she was protected from sight by the cluster of bushes surrounding her. She knew that Ron despised having to stay up all night with his thoughts for company, but Hermione and Harry were more appreciative of the silence and solitude. She often brought a book or some parchment with her to guide her thoughts when she felt lost and by the time the sunlight crept through the branches, Hermione had reached an almost ethereal sense of peace.

With a harsh _snap_ , Hermione felt the violent tug of apparition in her abdomen and she squeezed Narcissa tightly. As they were contorted through space, she felt Narcissa's arm hold her impossibly nearer.

Hermione's rough grunts were echoed by Narcissa's yelps as they landed rather ungracefully on the grassy, uneven ground. Stumbling, Hermione braced herself against the tree trunk and sank to her knees. Her jeans quickly became soaked but Hermione didn't mind; it soothed the nausea and dizziness. Though the world was still spinning, Hermione opened her eyes and aimed her wand at the sky. " _Homenum Revelio_ ," she spluttered. When the spell returned negative, she sighed in relief and sank down to all fours.

As her wand hand pressed against the ground, Hermione immediately felt a sting move its way across her palm. She pulled her hand up for inspection, panicking, and found four curved cuts staring back at her. They glistened scarlet with unshed blood and the dirt clinging to the severed skin's border was concerning.

For a moment, Hermione was utterly puzzled. Then in a second she recalled the tight fist she'd held as they'd walked to the apparition point. She hadn't been clenching firmly enough to draw blood, though. It must have been aggravated by the apparition. Considering that she'd been magically sober for a month and was using an unfamiliar wand, Hermione was quite satisfied with the general lack of lost limbs or misplaced organs.

In _her_ body, at least.

Hermione turned to where she and Narcissa had landed and spotted the other woman sprawled on her back, her upper body firmly planted on the top of a bush while her legs rested on the ground at uncomfortable angles. Not bothering to stand, Hermione crawled nearer and asked, breathless, "Are you alright?"

"I seem to be in one piece," Narcissa answered, her voice an uncomfortable grimace as she squirmed to free herself. She managed to move herself to a seated position and flinched as a branch of the bush scraped against her back. "I think I might have twisted my knee when I fell, and I'm sure I have plenty of bruises and scrapes." As she spoke, she inspected her arms for any wounds other than the abrasions on her hands that Hermione could clearly see. "And you?"

"I'm fine," Hermione answered, glad to find that the symptoms were rapidly easing. "Just a little dizziness." Moving closer, Hermione sat on her heels at Narcissa's side watched as the other woman took inventory of her injuries. "We're alone, by the way. I checked. No one's nearby."

"That's good news," Narcissa mumbled as she shifted her legs. The left one flexed easily but the right made her wince. Finally looking at Hermione, Narcissa mused, "You did such an excellent job of healing me before. I'm afraid I may be in need of your treatment again."

Hermione laughed and Narcissa smiled. Without missing a beat, Hermione gently took the woman's hands and settled them on her thigh, palms-up, and began to heal the scraped skin until the burning red blotches were the pale pink canvas of Narcissa's flesh once again.

The knee proved to be a more challenging problem and Hermione spent a good fifteen minutes stewing in frustration until she met success. There was a pop and Narcissa sighed in relief.

"That feels much better."

"You're not just saying that to make me feel better about my healing spells, are you?"

Narcissa laughed, three clean notes of amusement. "No, I think you've finally fixed it."

"Good. What else needs healing?"

Narcissa shook her head and moved to stand. "I'm perfectly alright. I have only a few slight discomforts on my back, courtesy of this plant." Narcissa bitterly gestured to the now splintered bush which had been thoroughly smashed by the weight of Narcissa's fall. "I'll be sure to treat them if they become problematic."

Hermione stood as Narcissa did and nodded. Brushing her hands on her pants, she hissed as the friction tore at the slight cuts on her palm and she held it up to her hand again. The dirt was smeared across her hand and deeply embedded in the little dermal chasms.

"Are you hurt?" frowned Narcissa and she stepped closer, gently encircling Hermione's wrist and bringing it closer to her eyes. Hermione watched the woman as she surveyed her palm, suddenly uncomfortably self-conscious. Narcissa's expression portrayed only concern.

"It seems you are now in need of my care," Narcissa said softly. Adjusting her angle, she aimed her wand at Hermione's dirtied hand and administered a deep disinfecting spell. Hermione bit her lip at the burning it caused but remained silent as Narcissa worked until her hand was not only cleaned, but healed. Narcissa enclosed Hermione's hand between both her own. "Perhaps you should trim your nails," she suggested.

Awkwardly, Hermione answered, "Yeah, I'm not used to them being this long. I think apparition did most of the damage, though; I never clench my fists hard enough to draw blood like that."

Narcissa released Hermione's hand and gave her a smile which Hermione had no idea how to interpret.

Hermione let out a breath and hoped it would shift the conversation. Not meeting Narcissa's eyes, she slung the strap of her back over her shoulder and proposed, "Do you think you could begin to set up our things? I'll cast the wards." Narcissa nodded wordlessly and took the bag.

Relieved to have a few moments of relative privacy, Hermione paced what she estimated to be a reasonable circumference for their campsite and erected the wards she had learned so well. She took her time to ensure that they were sturdy, holding her breath as she manipulated the magic and wrestled it into place. She could feel the wand resisting her movements and vaguely wondered what sort of spells it was used to casting. What was the standard repertoire of a Death Eater's wand?

But wouldn't it be more likely that the spare wand closet was stocked with the wands of Voldemort's victims? Perhaps the slender wood resting in her palms had belonged to a Muggleborn witch, confiscated from her clenched fingers as she begged for the lives of her children. Or from an eager eleven-year-old who had been abducted from the Hogwarts Express, his freshly purchased wand torn from his trunk of belongings and tossed into a cupboard, never having been used.

Hermione realised her muscles had seized and she was paralysed, her wide eyes staring at the wand in her hands. Her palms were sweating and clammy and the ward she'd been in the middle of casting had fizzled out when her concentration wandered. Her morbid fantasies had left her cold and shaky, but she nevertheless scolded herself for being so careless and leaving herself exposed and undefended.

Straightening her posture, she raised her arms and whispered the incantation, focusing on manipulating the magic into the protective shielding she desired, all the while shoving the images of the wand's rightful owner from her head.

When she was satisfied that the wards were secure, Hermione ambled back towards the spot where she had left Narcissa to set up the campsite. She heard the woman's movements before she saw them; Narcissa had organised their tools into distinct piles according to their function. Hermione watched her for a moment, crouched over their cooking supplies and food rations on the grass. Her blonde hair was shielding her face like a curtain woven from the palest thread.

Narcissa looked up before Hermione could announce herself. "The wards are established?" she asked gently.

"Yeah," answered Hermione. She suddenly felt embarrassed for staring.

Narcissa nodded and turned back to the items she was attempting to sort. With a frustrated sigh, she pushed herself to a standing position and absently dusted off her jeans. "I'm glad to have you back. I don't think I would be able to assemble a sturdy shelter on my own." Hermione wondered whether Narcissa had experienced the same cold dread in her belly when they had been separated for the twenty minutes or so it took for Hermione to set up the wards. "Even with magic, this Muggle technology continues to puzzle me." She extended a metal rod to Hermione and Hermione took it with a timid smile, pushing emotions from her mind and committing herself to the task of helping Narcissa put together the tent.

Hermione stood in the corner, arms folded across her chest and a smirk firmly planted on her lips. "You know," she mused aloud. "I'm not sure that all your adjustments will stay put when we collapse the tent to move."

Narcissa didn't turn from her position and her brows remained tightly furrowed as she carefully twisted her wand at the smooth rocks she'd brought inside the tent. As soon as they'd put the thing together, she'd taken it upon herself to make it more "comfortable." Hermione could hardly say she was surprised when it turned out that the woman's definition of comfort was expanding the interior to the size of a large Hogwarts classroom and transfiguring various pieces of wood and stone into approximations of end tables. At the moment, she was attempting to transfigure a pile of rocks about twice the size of Hermione's fist into a hearth for a healthy fire. Hermione couldn't deny that she was impressed by Narcissa's magical capabilities or her taste for interior design, but there was something profoundly amusing about the fact that they were quite literally running for their lives and Narcissa appeared to be more concerned with the colour scheme of their campsite.

"Your little bag was made by Muggles," Narcissa replied without turning. "And it certainly seems to be able to cope with your magical alterations."

"Yes, but all I did was enlarge it," Hermione quipped in response. "I think what you're attempting here," Pausing, Hermione took a moment to survey the inside of the tent and let her eyes linger on the respectably sized sofa. "…is a little more complicated."

Narcissa shrugged, still not turning from her position as she attempted to fuse the rocks together. "I suppose we shall see whether the effects are permanent."

Hermione smiled. "I suppose we shall."


	13. Olive Branch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have quite the plot worked out in my head. Writing it out is proving to be the hard part. I hope you enjoy this morsel-hopefully it will motivate me to write more ;)
> 
> Trigger warnings: Anxiety

Hermione's eyes opened as she sharply slid from sleep to consciousness. It was dark and there was a rustling breeze wandering around her, cooling her skin with a gentle caress. She inhaled the crisp, fresh air and focused on steadily expelling it. In her mind, she infinitely recited her mantra until she felt the fear loosen its grip upon her heart just a little: _I am safe, I am safe, I am safe, I am safe…_.

The pillow and comfortable sleeping bag were both proof that she was not at the mercy of kidnappers or waiting for her daily torture. _I am safe, I am safe, I am safe…._

She would feel better with company. Once again focusing on keeping her movements steady despite the trembling anxiety threatening to overwhelm her, Hermione slid her wand from her pillowcase and lit a dim _Lumos_ to guide her to the front of the tent.

Hermione had, for lack of a better word, crashed almost as soon as the sun began to set. The exhaustion had been crippling and Narcissa had insisted that she go to sleep immediately. Naturally, Hermione had protested, offering to take the night watch, but the argument hadn't lasted very long before Narcissa had administered the same soothing spell and Hermione had descended into deep sleep.

Hermione had no idea how long ago that had been. It could have been anywhere between fifteen minutes or dozens of hours. She didn't linger on all the possibilities as she crept further and ducked through the flap.

The grass was cool and dewy on her bare feet, suggesting that it had been at least a few hours. Narcissa turned from her seated position leaning against the tree trunk and gave Hermione a smile.

"Good morning," she whispered.

"Is it morning?" Hermione responded, looking at the dark sky curiously.

"The sun will be rising shortly," confirmed Narcissa. "Did you sleep well?"

Hermione shrugged. "Alright," her voice was hoarse from sleep and she rubbed her eyes. "You should sleep—I'll stand watch now."

To Hermione's mild surprise, Narcissa didn't object. Pushing herself to her feet, she folded the coat she'd been sitting on. "Very well, but let us have some tea first."

They silently assembled the tea and some of their food as the sunlight leaked into the tent, dripping shades of pink and gold across their belongings. Hermione listened to the chirping of the birds as their cries became louder with the brightening of the light. The quietude, the peacefulness of it all was astounding.

Narcissa covered a yawn with the back of her hand as she set the teapot upon the low table. Hermione was seated on her pillow and Narcissa copied the setup. Compared to the rather dingy conditions Hermione had become accustomed to, this felt like fine dining.

Silently, Hermione passed Narcissa the bag of dried apricot slices she'd been nibbling on.

They ate wordlessly, each lost in her own thoughts, and it wasn't until Hermione was halfway through her second cup of tea that she spoke.

"I take it that the night was uneventful, then?"

Narcissa nodded. "The most interesting thing was a rabbit who was rather insistent in investigating our camp, much to the chagrin of a nearby squirrel."

That made Hermione smile. "I see," was all she said.

A beat passed, and then Narcissa cocked her head and commented, "You seem well-rested."

"I do?" Narcissa nodded. "Well, I imagine it's harder to look any worse."

Narcissa grimaced in a pained smile of amusement at Hermione's sarcastic quip. "True."

"I don't know how to feel, honestly," Hermione blurted suddenly. "There are moments when I'm just absolutely consumed by fear and anxiety and I believe that this is all some delusion and at any moment someone will come for me and break the spell. But then a moment later, I'm convinced that it didn't happen. My grip on reality just feels so… flimsy."

Hermione stared unseeingly into her mug, stewing in the confusion she'd just voiced. It hadn't been her intention to spew all her feelings; they'd just sort of found their way out her mouth on their own.

"Shortly after you went to bed," Narcissa's voice was soft and Hermione had the distinct impression that something in the woman's demeanour had shifted. "The wind became harsher and for a split second, I believed that the sound was the hiss of the Dark Lord's snake. I found myself unable to breathe and utterly paralysed, convinced that he had found me and I was to be executed by that beast of his. It only took a moment for me to realise that I was being ridiculous, but I trembled for hours and nearly became sick with fear."

Narcissa was staring into her tea now as Hermione observed her with wide eyes. Her mind assembled the image of Narcissa huddled in the darkness, crying and shaking as her heart palpitated with every slither of the wind. The picture was a tragic one and Hermione suddenly felt a swell of empathy.

"You should have woken me,"

"You need your rest, Hermione," Narcissa answered kindly. "I'll be alright—I can't imagine how you must be feeling. Do not concern yourself with me."

Frowning, Hermione responded, "I don't think either of us has it worse than the other. Just because it isn't as obvious doesn't make it any less legitimate."

"Perhaps," Narcissa mused, taking a sip of tea. Though she didn't voice it, Hermione could tell by the tilt of the other woman's lips that she was touched. Hermione suddenly became very determined that she would help Narcissa as Narcissa was helping her. With that resolution in mind, she tore a piece of dried apple with her teeth.

"I'll go start my watch, then," declared Hermione as she set down her empty cup. She stood and picked up one of her books from the end table by the sofa and unhooked her coat from the rack Narcissa had created. It was almost bizarre how homely this environment felt. "Sleep well," Hermione offered Narcissa a smile which the other woman returned before she stepped out into the sunlight.

Her skin eagerly soaked up the warmth of the light and Hermione spent an immeasurable time absorbing the beautiful shades of the early morning. The glittering gold and luminescent greens; it was inconceivably beautiful after a month of darkness where her only light had been stale and artificial, dully reflecting off coarse stone and glinting in the malicious eyes of her captors. Part of Hermione wanted to scold herself for being so dramatic about it all, but then she caught sight of a bruise peeking out from the edge of her sleeve. She had been the prisoner of Death Eaters for a month and she had survived—surely it wasn't weak of her to celebrate that? Savouring the sight of the real world wasn't overly dramatic.

With that mental conclusion, Hermione opened her newly purchased notebook and began to write. It felt good to spill her thoughts onto the page and organise them. The ink ran smoothly across the paper and the clean strokes felt like the most productive thing Hermione had done since getting out of the manor alive.

With careful precision, Hermione drew the symbol she had found in _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ : the triangle, the line, and the circle. The Deathly Hallows. She wasn't sure how they were significant yet, but it seemed important to have all the relevant information in one place. Beside the symbol, she wrote brief bulletpoints describing its history and function.

Beneath, she made two parallel lists: known Horcruxes and the objects that could destroy them. First, the diary, destroyed by Basilisk venom by Harry five years ago. Then the ring, cut with Gryffindor's sword by Dumbledore. Next, the locket, destroyed the same way by Ron a few months ago. Finally, the snake at Voldemort's side whose imagined image had tortured Narcissa in the middle of the night.

Four. Four out of how many? Perhaps the boys had discovered more during their separation, but what-ifs did not help Hermione at all. She was sure that there was a clue waiting for her in the information she already had, somewhere in her knowledge lay the answer. She just had to find it.

Hermione went through two-and-a-half more pages in her notebook, mapping out her thoughts and until her logic began to tie itself in knots and she conceded that there probably wasn't much point in going on like this for now. She would come back with a clear mind and then it would be easier. Maybe Narcissa would have some information.

The sun was much warmer and brighter now and Hermione estimated it was mid-morning. She was hungry again, she noticed, so she pulled the elastic band over her notebook cover and scurried inside to grab her next project. Her footsteps were as light as she could make them as she padded around the tent to grab the radio they'd bought and a bag of nuts. The canvas of the tent and its plastic "windows" let in plenty of light and Narcissa was fully illuminated as she slept. Her features were twitching into a frown and Hermione wondered what kind of dreams were playing in the woman's mind. Were they like the nightmares Hermione so often suffered from or more benign, bizarre? Hermione couldn't help but be jealous—it would be nice to be able to sleep without horrific images taunting her through the night.

She settled herself on the grass outside again, absently nibbling on handfuls of cashews and almonds as she fiddled with the Muggle radio. Who knew if Potterwatch was still operational or if a Muggle device could pick it up at all? It seemed like a place to start, though, and Hermione certainly wasn't about to ignore a potential link to her friends and fellow soldiers.

"Dumbledore," she murmured and tapped the device with her wandtip. It continued its static bleat as Hermione had expected it would. "Mad-Eye," she tried again, to no avail. Hermione grabbed another handful of nuts and ate one between each attempted password, methodically going through names of deceased Order members and easing into more creative possibilities.

There were a few moments when Hermione thought she heard a whisper through the rough static and she would hold her breath until she felt faint, desperately willing the voice of an ally to greet her through the speaker. But then she would be forced to breathe again and move to the next word on her endless list of potential passwords.

Hermione filled eight pages of her notebook with crossed-out passwords before deciding to take a break. She hadn't had much of an opportunity to leisurely wander of late, what with spending a month in a cramped cell, so she drifted around the campsite on foot. The way her body settled into the stroll made her feel sturdy and comfortable and on a whim, she aimed her wand at a twig and twirled it in the air. Her tooth buried itself in her bottom lip as she wrestled with the magic, contorting it until it aligned with her needs. She got the twig to sustain itself midair dozens of feet above her head, but her victory only lasted a moment before the twig inexplicably shot off to the left and then plummeted to the forest floor.

Well, that was new.

Hermione had always been consistent with controlling her magic, even when she'd had to use others' wands. That this one was proving to be so uncooperative was troubling in more ways than one.

" _Accio_ ," murmured Hermione, and she caught the twig with a frown on her lips as it flew unevenly in her direction, much too far to the right for her liking. If her magic was so out of control, she'd have to re-check the wards to make sure they were still stable.

When Narcissa woke and crawled out of the tent, she found Hermione seated against the trunk of the tree and frowning at the twig in her lap as though it had done her a great wrong. The sound of Narcissa's shoes standing on the ground startled Hermione out of her concentration and she flinched, but Narcissa offered her a friendly smile and moved to sit beside her.

"Sleep well?"

"Well enough," Narcissa stretched out her legs in front of her. "What is it you're doing with that?"

Hermione looked to the twig in her lap which Narcissa had indicated. With a sigh, she explained, "I'm worried that my magic may have weakened and this wand isn't helping. Nothing's working properly."

With a frown, Narcissa took the twig between her fingers. "What sort of charm were you attempting?"

"A few things," Hermione began, shifting on to her knees. "I managed to make it change appearance pretty reliably, but any sort of textural transfiguration ends up slightly off. I'm worried that there might be some holes in my magic and they might affect defensive spells. The wards I erected here seem fine, but it's impossible to tell for certain unless someone comes along."

Narcissa listened attentively as she probed the twig with her fingertips. Although it looked like a perfectly normal piece of wood, it had a consistency closer to that of rubber after hours of Hermione's meddling. Settling the thing on her palm, Narcissa aimed her wand at the small branch and silently aimed a shot of bright magic. In an instant, the benign twig was a funny pink caterpillar. Or at least it looked like a caterpillar, though Hermione could discern no obvious legs or face or any body part at all really. Before Hermione could question, Narcissa had flicked her wand and the thing had turned back into a twig, though such a very bright shade of brown it was nearly orange.

"It seems you are correct," mused Narcissa as she tried again and again to restore the wood to brown, though only succeeding in turning it a rich shade of magenta. "There are many possible explanations. You know, I am sure, that great shock, emotional and physical, can alter the nature of one's magic?" Hermione nodded. "Then, of course, there is the fact that these wands are strangers to us as we are to them."

"Do you know where they got these wands? The spares they kept around, I mean." Hermione curiosity had finally won over her fear of the answer.

"Some were merely stolen from suppliers," Narcissa explained, clearly thinking it best to begin with the most innocent method. "When Ollivander's was captured, his shop was raided. The public assumed the place had merely been trashed, but it is my understanding that over three hundred wands were stolen.

"Many others, as I'm sure you have concluded, belonged to victims of the Dark Lord. He takes particular delight in robbing magic from those he does not believe deserve it."

Hermione looked at the wand in her hand, twirled it between her fingertips. Though she could not shake the disturbing possibility that it had been extracted from tremoring grasp of one of Voldemort's many victims, part of her couldn't help but be smug: He didn't think she deserved magic, yet here she was wielding it against him.

"Why is Voldemort so concerned with hoarding wands?"

To her credit, Narcissa's only reaction to the name was a sharp intake of breath. "The Dark Lord holds a certain fascination with wandlore. I believe he's been collecting them for research. Furthermore, many in his army have suffered losses in battle and the Dark Lord wishes to make sure he is never lacking in supplies." Stiffening, she added, "Lucius, for example, lost his wand in battle."

"I thought that it was taken as a punishment."

"Afterwards, it was." Narcissa answered simply. "And it is for that reason that Lucius and I were not permitted wands in our own home."

"Except when you came to feed me," finished Hermione.

"Except when I came to feed you." echoed Narcissa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S.
> 
> Don't forget you can follow my progress and talk to me at my tumblr, 16-pennies dot tumblr dot com :)


	14. Talos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I think a 2-week update schedule is reasonable, don't you? :)
> 
> Trigger Warnings: allusions to racist violence, fire, mentioned blood and bruises

“ _Wingardium leviosa!_ ”

     “That seemed better,” commented Narcissa from her position at the base of the tree trunk, legs crossed. Hermione merely frowned. It was true that the objects she’d been Charming had been much more obedient over the course of the day as she and Narcissa had each taken turns at practicing their magic, but she couldn’t help the frustration from bubbling up in her ribs. Honestly, she was performing about as well as a mediocre third year at the moment.

     “I wish I could work out which _part_ of it was wrong, though,” moaned Hermione as she summoned the stone back from its perch on a high branch. “Is it me? The wand? Something I ate for breakfast?”

     Narcissa chuckled and summoned Hermione’s stone with a soft “ _Accio,_ ” but said nothing. After a moment of concentration, she transfigured the stone into a slightly asymmetrical goblet and levitated it back towards Hermione, who stood a few yards away, like a magical game of catch.

     “I’m not sure which factor is causing the issue, either,” she said as Hermione’s fingers secured around the goblet’s stem. “But nevertheless, I think our exercises are helping to stabilise our spells.”

     “I’ll make sure to practice more before running into any Death Eaters, then,” Hermione snorted and changed the goblet into a rather ugly-looking quill before floating it back towards Narcissa. It quivered in the air. Silently, the woman transfigured it into a lopsided hat and sent it sailing back across the gap between them. Hermione caught it. “I know you’ve never wanted to be a part of this war,” she said diplomatically as she thought of what else to change the hat into, “but I’m not giving up. As soon as I feel ready, I’m going back into it. Into _all_ of it.” With a determined flick, the grotesque hat contorted into a sunflower with a respectable number of petals. Hermione gave a triumphant smirk and magically flew the plant back towards the tree where Narcissa sat; only this time, Hermione followed too. She desperately wanted a cup of tea.

     “Well done,” nodded Narcissa as she took the flower into her hands. Seemingly sharing Hermione’s intentions, she pushed herself up from the ground and they began to make their way back to the tent. “I don’t have any illusions about what you want to do in this conflict, but I don’t intend to sit out, either.” With a flaming blast from the tip of her wand, Narcissa extracted a large weed from the ground and took it with her into the tent.

     “Of course you don’t; you want to find Draco.” Hermione hoped she was being sensitive enough not to trigger any sort of emotional episode in Narcissa. Though she prided herself in her empathy, Hermione wasn’t quite sure how to best console the grieving mother of her childhood bully.

     “Yes,” whispered Narcissa, “but if Wizarding society has come to a deciding point in its history, then I want to help to make sure that its resolution is the best it can be.”

     They were inside the tent now and Narcissa was transfiguring the mangled weed into a vase. She mumbled “ _Aguamenti_ ,” to fill it modestly with fresh water and then set Hermione’s transfigured sunflower inside it. Hermione took her position at the makeshift tea station on the uneven coffee table and began to assemble the teapot.

     “And what do you think is the best possible resolution?” asked Hermione carefully, trying to measure how much tea she ought to use. If Narcissa was considering changing her perspective on the war, then Hermione wanted to make sure that she didn’t stray to a faction which might be a detriment to the Light.

     With the vase in hand, Narcissa strode over to the short table where Hermione sat and lowered herself onto a pillow, crossing her legs again. “One in which there is as little violence as possible,” she explained as she set the vase on the table next to the teapot. With their rickety table and droopy, transfigured sunflower, the scene looked like a mockery of high tea. “And allows for the growth of Wizarding society and all of its occupants.”

     That sounded like a carefully groomed political statement, Hermione thought, and she had the distinct impression that she was listening to herself spout textbook definitions in class. “So you’re on our side.”

     “I didn’t say that,” Narcissa responded quickly as she took the tea Hermione offered. She didn’t bother to add cream or sugar but just took a sip of the bitter drink. Her lip curled in distaste and she aimed her wand at it until the cup began to steam and she took another sip. “Both factions in this war are polarised and I don’t think that either of them will be able to create a better society should they win.”

     Hermione was dumbstruck by this. How in the world could she imply that Harry’s victory would be just as bad as Voldemort’s?

     Apparently Hermione’s wide eyes conveyed this, because Narcissa explained, “Of course, the Dark Lord’s triumph would lead to horrific violence and terror, much like what is happening now. Harry Potter would promote pacifism, but I do not believe he or any of his affiliates would ease the polarisation of Wizarding society. When it comes down to it, they are not very different from one another and I do not believe either of them holds the solution.” Narcissa punctuated her thought with a deep sip of tea and looked at Hermione expectantly.

     Hermione sat there silently, ignoring her tea. Her instinct was to become very indignant, to argue that of course Harry would heal all this. She’d seen him bring people together and unite allies with the unmistakable charisma of a natural leader.

     But then again, she’d also seen him on a near-daily basis taunt and goad his enemies into meaningless fights in school corridors and deadly battlefields alike. Harry James Potter was inherently reckless, Hermione knew, but while she merely tolerated his more problematic behaviours and tried to stay on top of damage control, Narcissa seemed to think it was grounds enough to discredit his entire movement. With Voldemort in charge, there would be genocide and mass terror and violence; with Harry, Death Eaters and their affiliates would likely be persecuted as rigorously as Muggle-borns. Either way, there would be a war every generation. Hermione had known this, but it didn’t seem like much of a priority considering the state of things.

     “What do you propose, then?”

     “I don’t pretend to have the perfect solution,” Narcissa told her, seemingly baffled by Hermione’s lack of immediate objection. “I think an integration program might ease the strain between the magical classes, though I admit I have no idea how to design or implement such a thing.” Narcissa settled more deeply into her pillow as she spoke and her eyes seemed to brighten. It seemed strange that she should be excited by near-impossible social issues.

     But then again, Hermione was the one who had feverishly stayed up all night in the Gryffindor common room organising S.P.E.W. at the tender age of fourteen.

     “What sort of integration program?”

     “Well, clearly heaping everyone in together is not working. Purebloods know nothing of Muggles except lies and stereotypes and Muggle-born children are ignorant about the world to which they belong. Specialised education for each group might ease the strain—“

     “’Separate but equal?’”

     Narcissa, affronted by Hermione’s snapping, answered, “Yes, in a manner of speaking.”

     “But that’s racist!” cried Hermione, her tea now forgotten. “American Muggles tried it fifty years ago. It was a disaster!”

     “I’m not suggesting that we situate one demographic as socially inferior,” Narcissa said quickly, clearly seeing that Hermione was about to get very upset. “The Americans tried to institute the ‘separate but equal’ policy as a permanent solution to racial bias; I think that Wizarding society could benefit from it as a sort of transition.

     “Think of it:” Narcissa pushed herself up onto her knees, desperate to help Hermione understand. “For the first few years of their Hogwarts education, students could attend classes with curriculum tailored to their blood or upbringing. Those of magical heritage would learn about their traditions as well as Muggle society and vice versa. They would hardly be isolated from one another, given that they would live in the same castle, and by the time they reached year three or four their education would be totally integrated.”

     “So the Purebloods would learn about Muggles,” Hermione enunciated slowly, “while the Muggle-borns would learn about magical society.” Narcissa nodded. “They’d interact outside of class, of course.” Pointed out Hermione. “In common rooms and at mealtimes and Quidditch.”

     “Of course—I’m not suggesting total segregation, just a more personalised approach to education for perhaps a generation or so until all this,” Narcissa gestured vaguely in the air, “becomes history.”

     Hermione sat back and cradled her teacup; it kept fluctuating between hot and cold and she couldn’t get it to stay at a comfortable drinking temperature. “I don’t like the idea of treating students differently based on blood. Just on the principle of it.”

     “I agree,” Narcissa concurred quickly. “And I have no doubt that your personal experiences make it even more unpalatable. But you must understand that there has never been any formalised effort to bring together these two worlds. We have been totally isolated from one another since the 16th century, guided only by prejudiced conjecture and dangerous fables.”

     “And then you just toss everyone together once they turn eleven and expect them to get along marvellously,” Hermione finished, a sarcastic smirk playing at her lips. More sombrely, she added, “If we don’t find a way to get the two cultures to coexist, we’ll just keep having one war after another.”

     Narcissa nodded in grave agreement. “When the Dark Lord vanished eighteen years ago, very few people attempted to mend the social fractures which had caused the conflict in the first place. It was all about persecuting the Death Eaters and healing those who had suffered—which, of course, are both very important. But all this cannot be blamed on the whims of a madman. No matter how magically gifted or persuasive, he would not be so powerful if there were not already parts of the culture which sympathised with him.”

     Countless seconds passed in stunned silence during which the pair just stared at each other. Somehow, they’d gone from levitating rocks to outlining the core issues with Wizarding society and hypothesising a way to fix it.

     Rather unexpectedly and inexplicably, Hermione burst out laughing. She was pretty sure her tea spilled because she was so hunched over, gripping herself a she seized with laughter. She could barely breathe for it.

     “Shall we invite them over to tea, then?” she spluttered.

Narcissa, laughing heartily herself though not quite as lost as Hermione had become, answered, “Shall we sit Harry Potter and the Dark Lord at our crooked coffee table and tell them how to resolve it all?”

     “Yes!” snickered Hermione, laughing all the harder as she surveyed the scene. One of their lumpy, transfigured pillows would serve as a nice throne for Lord Voldemort.

     Smiling and barely holding back her laughter, Narcissa reached down to the damp rug (yes, Narcissa had insisted they purchase a proper rug). “You spilled your tea,” she said, picking up the tea and vanishing the mess. A few fibres of the rug vanished too, leaving a bald patch. Hermione took the teacup, still shaking with amusement, and set it on the table.

     Hermione met Narcissa’s eyes and for an incalculable moment they were able to hold on to that simple happy moment. In that instant, they had proven something that both had thought to be impossible: They could be alright, even with Voldemort nearly winning the war and both of them on the run for the lives, with their scars and bruises and dismantled families, they could be happy. Not only that, they _would_ be. They were determined.

     And then the buzzing started.

     A heartbeat passed. Then two. Three. Four.

“Do you hear that?” Narcissa breathed, her gaze still locked with Hermione’s.

     Hermione nodded and wordlessly stood, breaking eye contact as she crept towards the entrance of the tent. The buzzing, which had begun as a slight nuisance, became stronger the further away she crept. It didn’t change in pitch or volume, but rather hovered there on the brim of her mind.

     Narcissa had appeared beside Hermione and they both silently debated whether or not to leave the safety provided by the woven canvas.

     “It’s one of the wards.”

     “Do you know which one?”

     Hermione shook her head.

     “It could be a Muggle,” offered Narcissa optimistically.

     _Or it could be Voldemort himself,_ thought Hermione ruthlessly, though she didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she turned her eyes back to Narcissa’s, noting that they were about equal height, and silently asked what they should do.

     “I’ll Disillusion myself,” Hermione hissed after a moment’s thought. “And try to sneak out. If anyone’s out there, I’ll send red sparks back towards the tent.”

     Narcissa raised her eyebrows, “Or I’ll hear the sound of you fighting for your life.”

     “Yes, or that.”

     Without another word or a hesitation about the lunacy of her plan, Hermione aimed her wand at her temple and whispered the incantation. The spell oozed down her skin like it always did and Hermione chose to take this as a sign it had worked.

     “Can you see me?”

     “No, only when I look carefully and the light catches you.”

     Given the fact that they hadn’t heard any sort of disturbance outside, it seemed unlikely that there was a chorus of Death Eaters awaiting Hermione. But hadn’t they just discussed the likelihood that her wards were unstable?

     These thoughts didn’t ease her hammering heart as she tried to slip through the canvas flap that served as the tent’s door. If anyone was outside, they certainly knew she was coming despite the fact that she was invisible.

     As soon as she was clear of the tent, Hermione stiffened into an active defensive posture, wand aimed and her eyes flitting about for a threat or unexplained movement in her peripheral.

     Her heightened senses were met with nothing. The trees were as they ever were, intimidating and subtle in their strength and the omnipresent breeze was toying with their freshly budded leaves. Hermione waited a few more breaths before backing back to the tent.

     “Th-there’s no one here,” she stuttered. She heard Narcissa step out into the open. “No one that I can see, anyway.”

     “We should check the area, though, just in case.”

     “Yeah, we should.” Both their voices were grim and Hermione hated the way the war had turned them back into these soldiers.

     They spent a good hour, at least, surveying the campsite which, in Narcissa’s case, included setting fire to a shrub. At first Hermione had been terrified that wandfire had broken out, but instead she’d found Narcissa casting _Aguamenti_ after _Aguamenti_ at a small, burning ball of brush. Hermione had giggled at that, to which Narcissa merely replied, “Serves it right. My back is a bruised, bloody mess thanks to the other one.”

     “It’s your fault for falling on it!”

     “I hardly had a choice, seeing as you were the one who Apparated us!” teased Narcissa.

     Hermione grinned and shrugged and for a moment their little bubble of safety was restored.

     But the quivering hum at the edge of their minds was not going away, so the heightened sense of caution and foreboding likewise hung around until after they’d finished their scans and were seated in front of the tent with fresh cups of tea in their hands, Hermione having long ago made herself visible again.

     “It’s an issue with the wards, I’m sure of it.”

     “I hardly see how someone could be within them considering the thoroughness of our search.”

     Hermione didn’t even want to think of the ways someone could be hiding nearby. It made her skin crawl.

     “I’d re-cast them, but I don’t want to leave us defenceless for even a second. But the truth is I’m not sure where the issue is, and that makes it difficult to patch up.”

     Narcissa had tried giving her input, but it had quickly become obvious that Hermione had more knowledge and experience with protective wards. Hoping to be encouraging, she said, “I’m sure you’ll find the problem,” and rubbed a gentle hand across Hermione’s back.

     They sat on the ground with their tea, each trying to manoeuvre her thoughts around the grim possibilities that the buzzing provoked. The sound reminded Hermione of a pesky fly, but one that was constantly nagging you about all the ways you could die in the next minute.

     “Look at that owl!” Hermione’s head snapped up to where Narcissa was pointing and saw one of the most startlingly beautiful creatures sitting midway up a tree. It was indeed an owl, but unlike one Hermione had ever seen. Its feathers were blonde and the way they shimmered in the sunlight made the creature look like it had been cast out of molten gold. Perhaps most startling of all, though, was its emerald eyes. Hermione had never encountered a species of owl with green eyes before, and it seemed unfair that the planet could not be blessed with such beauty more frequently.

     The owl was watching them, its jade irises focused precisely on them and its head nodded in their direction. Its scrutiny made Hermione grateful she had not been incarnated a mouse; despite its loveliness, the thing looked ready to swoop in and eat her.

     “Owls are magical creatures,” breathed Narcissa. Turning to face Hermione, she gushed, “It would have violated your wards similar to how a Wizard would have done.”

     Hermione’s eyes widened. “We’re safe.” Narcissa smiled, wide and joyful, and nodded. “My wards—they work.” Narcissa nodded again and Hermione let out a thunderous sigh of relief. Overwhelmed, Hermione sunk against Narcissa’s shoulder and buried her face in her hands. “We’re safe,” she murmured over and over again. “I did it.”

     “Yes, you did,” reassured Narcissa.

     They rested together, huddled on the ground outside the tent until Hermione whispered, “Sorry, I didn’t realise how scared I was.” She sat back up and Narcissa retracted her hand.

     “It’s alright,”

     Hermione looked up to the tree and saw the owl still perched there, watching them intently. The sun was setting and its shimmering feathers were glittering spectacularly. There were no Death Eaters nearby, just this unprecedentedly beautiful animal. It felt like an angelic sentry and Hermione smiled at it.

     “I remember the first time I saw all the owls at Diagon Alley,” she said softly. “I was so amazed. Muggles are very particular about animals; they’re usually domesticated. And they’re nowhere near as extraordinary as owls….”

     As if on cue, the blonde owl spread its wings and threw itself from the branch, disappearing up into the pines. The humming in their ears quieted.

     “If we can make it through this with our only threat being a golden owl,” Hermione mused.

     Narcissa finished her thought: “I think we will be quite alright.”


	15. Ketamine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope you enjoy hanging around as these two slowly get to know one another. If you're keen for action, then all I can ask is that you employ a little patience. Furthermore, please note that this chapter was edited and re-posted 20 August 2016.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Mentioned derealisation

They'd sat outside until they'd had their fill of the tea and the evening chill became inescapable. Hermione packed up the few things she'd brought outside, namely her notebook and the radio, and brought them inside the tent where she found Narcissa had set up a healthy fire in her transfigured hearth. The heat accosted her thoroughly and she inhaled deeply.

"Oh, that's lovely."

Narcissa turned and smiled. "I'm glad you approve. I think it should stay contained in the shield charm I made for a few hours at least."

"So the tent won't catch fire," clarified Hermione.

"Yes," Narcissa confirmed. She took the tea things from Hermione and put them away. It was odd how they'd managed to put together a system in this little home that they'd inhabited for barely 24 hours. "Although the tent did advertise that it was 'fire-resistant,' I don't see how such a thing is possible without magic."

Hermione smiled and settled onto a pillow by the fire. "It means that they've treated the materials with chemicals that don't combust easily. So it will still catch fire eventually, just not as easily as, say, a pile of dry parchment." For now, it seemed like they didn't have to worry much about flammable tents, though. Hermione could see the tips of the flames gracing the edge of Narcissa's charm and it seemed to be containing the fire perfectly. True, it was spring, but Hermione wanted the heat.

Nestling in her pillow, she assembled her radio and notebook again and opened to the latest page. Her eyes ran down the list, trying to reach a new possible password. Perhaps the password system had been changed altogether? It was borderline infuriating to go on such little information.

Figuring it was worth a go, Hermione sat very straight and still, shut her eyes, and rested her wand atop the radio. Potterwatch, she thought vigorously. I need to hear my friends. She thought back to how clear and exact one's intentions had to be to get into the Room of Requirement. Let me there their voices. Her mind's eye painted Ron's startling red hair and the fire of Harry's passionate green eyes. Please.

"Are you attempting to Charm the wireless?"

Hermione opened her eyes with a disappointed sigh. "No," she took the thing in her hands and turned it over, evaluating all the dials. She'd long ago decided that she would tell Narcissa practically everything, and now it seemed the time had come to reveal the first. "There's a secret radio program. It was created by members of the Light—ex-Hogwarts students, members of the Order of the Phoenix, et cetera. They all had pseudonyms, of course. It was called Potterwatch." Hermione looked up to gauge Narcissa's reaction to this. If anything, she seemed taken aback that Hermione was being so forthcoming.

"What sort of program was it?"

Shrugging, Hermione continued, "It depended on who was hosting the show that day, really. There were always updates on any deaths or major events. Sometimes there would be interviews, stories; it was a way to keep everyone together.

"The program's protected by a password, though. You have to say the correct password at the right time to get in. They'd announce next airing's password at the end of each program."

"So if you missed one, it was nearly impossible to find it again."

"Exactly," Hermione said, exasperated. "Of course, I'm not even sure Potterwatch is still running, but it seems like the best place to start."

Narcissa nodded in agreement and held out her hand in a "May I?" gesture; Hermione handed her the radio.

"What sort of phrases were the passwords?"

"Usually names of—" Hermione swallowed. "—dead Order members. Here are the ones I've tried so far," she nudged the open notebook towards Narcissa's knees and showed her the hundreds of crossed out words.

Narcissa's eyebrows rose at the magnitude of Hermione's attempts and her eyes ran down the list, reading each word. One made her lip curl and Hermione suspected that it was the part where she'd tried Bertie Botts bean flavour names.

"Alastor Moody… he died last July."

"Yeah, on Harry's birthday."

Narcissa nodded. "I remember."

"You were there?"

"Not at the battle, no, but I remember the celebrations. I daresay that the death of Moody was the best thing that happened to the Dark Lord that night, considering how unsuccessful his other endeavours were." Narcissa's expression darkened as she added, "Other than that, there was not much celebrating that night."

Hermione really didn't want to think what constituted a Death Eater celebration.

"Do you have any ideas for other passwords?"

Narcissa turned a page in the notebook and shook her head. "I hardly think I know something you do not. There have been many attacks on Muggle and Muggle-born families since you have been imprisoned, but I doubt they would be significant enough."

Hermione didn't much like the idea that those slaughtered innocents weren't important, but she conceded to Narcissa's point. The woman in question had set the radio on the rug and was aiming her wand at it with a look of stern determination in her eyes.

"Dumbledore!"

The radio didn't so much as twitch.

"Gryffindor! Reveal yourself!"

Nothing.

"Weasley!" Narcissa cried the name with such vehemence that sparks flew from the tip of her wand and sent Hermione diving for cover. When she came back up, she found Narcissa staring at her wandtip with a look of mild awe on her face.

"Can a Muggle device tune in to Potterwatch?" asked Narcissa, as though she hadn't nearly set the radio on fire.

"That's the thing—I don't know. I don't even know if it's operating anymore. But it seems like the best place to start, so here I am."

"I would do the same." Narcissa handed Hermione the radio and Hermione accepted it into her hold. She stared at it for a minute, willing it to make noise, but then gave up and set it on the table. They would try again later. "I'll let you know if I think of any possible passwords," offered Narcissa and Hermione smiled in thanks.

They chose to have dinner then, comfortably seated on pillows in front of the fire. "Dinner" consisted of bread, dried fruit and nuts, a few packaged vegetables, and chocolate. Looking at it all spread across their coffee table, Hermione felt like the duchess of antipasto.

"You know, we could buy Muggle meals and preserve them for weeks with a stasis charm."

Hermione laughed. "Is this not good enough for you? With Harry and Ron, we literally ate mushrooms we found in the ground!"

Narcissa's nose wrinkled and she took another bite of chocolate. "How did you make sure they weren't toxic?"

"I had a Herbology book with me. Actually, when we boiled them, they weren't terribly bad." With a frustrated groan, Hermione tossed a handful of nuts into her mouth. "I wish I had my magical books with me. And some potions. We need potions. Or a cauldron, at least!"

Before Narcissa could answer Hermione's melodrama, their eardrums began to quiver with the same buzzing as before. Instantly, they looked to each other to check they'd both heard the noise. It grew in intensity for a second before stabilising at a muted hum.

"I suppose our friend must be back."

"Well, I certainly hope it's a pretty owl over anyone else." Hermione replied as they both stood. Sure enough, the owl was back on its perch and its emerald eyes were aimed directly at them. The thing cocked its head and Hermione once again had the feeling that if not for her size, it would be hunting her.

"Shall we leave it some food, do you think?" whispered Narcissa.

Hermione shook her head. "It can hunt for itself. Besides, we need that food for ourselves. We don't have much to spare, remember?"

With that, they crawled back inside the tent and packed up their meal. The buzzing grew and softened as the owl moved around their campsite and Hermione started to think of it as a sort of feathery guardian angel.

"Have you ever read anything by Malinda Honeybranch?"

"Pardon?" Hermione was curled up in the corner of the sofa writing in her notebook and had not expected any kind of conversation at all. "I don't think I've ever heard of that person. Who is she?"

Narcissa was seated on the rug and leaning against the sofa on which Hermione sat. Her legs were swept under her and Hermione could see she was tracing the cut on her forearm that Draco had left her, though she wasn't sure whether this was a conscious movement or not.

"She's a rather well-known Wizarding philosopher. I'm not surprised you haven't heard of her, though. Her work has barely been touched in the last twenty years and even before then it was not taken seriously." Hermione shut her notebook and sat up straighter, attentive. "She wrote extensively about Muggle vs. Magical culture." Narcissa turned to Hermione. "She wrote a book about the theory I explained earlier—about providing unique, separate education to children dependent on their upbringing."

"Is that why she isn't well-known? Because her ideas are so controversial?"

"I would hardly say she isn't well-known," countered Narcissa. "When I was at Hogwarts, her work was standard curriculum. However, it was removed a short time later by the Board of Governors. This was as the Dark Lord was first gaining a following, you understand. During that first war, to mention her was to put you in the path of the Dark Lord's wand and everyone was far too busy protecting themselves to concern themselves with academia.

"Then, with the Dark Lord gone, there didn't seem a need for her ideas anymore. I doubt you could find a copy of her books easily today."

"How have I never heard of her? I thought I'd read everything in the Hogwarts library!" Hermione was only half-joking with that declaration; she was irritated and angry by what Narcissa had told her.

Narcissa merely laughed. "If what I've heard is to be believed even the slightest, I'm sure there isn't a book in there that you haven't touched." With slow movements, Narcissa pushed herself up onto the sofa and settled herself into the other corner. She was wearing a tightly knitted shawl around her shoulders and Hermione never would have imagined she'd ever see Narcissa Malfoy (or whatever her surname was now) look so comfortable. It rather suited her, she thought. Far more than that stiff air of superiority did, anyway.

"When this is over, I will give you my copies of her books. I'd be interested to hear your thoughts."

There were quite a few things in that statement that made Hermione pause. For a start, the assumption that they would be alive when "this is over" was questionable at best. Second, that Narcissa wanted to continue any kind of association was remarkable, not to mention hear Hermione's opinion on anything. The image was almost absurd: The pair of them sitting over tea, debating with a stack of gently used books scattered between the cream and sugar. With a bit of a jolt, Hermione realised that she wanted it very, very much.

"I'd like that," she said honestly, surprising herself, and Narcissa accepted her with a nod. Hermione could see the woman's fingers running up and down that line on her forearm like a pulse under her shawl and found that she couldn't ignore it any longer.

"Does it hurt? The cut?"

Narcissa looked confused for a moment, then looked down at her own arm to see her fingers hovering over inflamed slash in her skin. She shook her head very slowly. "No, it does not."

Hermione didn't press further, though she wasn't convinced Narcissa was truthful. "Okay. Just take care it doesn't get infected." She opened her notebook and found her spot on the page where she'd been documenting the day's events and continued writing.

"Do you think he's alright?"

Hermione looked up from the paper where she'd written all of three words. Narcissa was staring into the fire and the flames illuminated her face in strange flashes of shadow that made her look beautiful one moment and extraordinarily sad the next. Sometimes the expressions clashed and it made Hermione wish she were an artist so she could capture it instead of writing about encrypted charms and wards.

"I don't know," answered Hermione honestly. "I don't think anyone is alright in this war, and we both know he won't go unpunished once they figure out he helped free us."

"He shouldn't have done it. Or he should have ensured he had a way to come with us. It wasn't worth it."

Hermione wondered whether she should be offended by that comment. "He loves his mother," she answered simply, trying to will Narcissa to turn her head and make eye contact. "He wanted you free and safe."

"I am hardly a mother deserving of love if I cannot protect my own son." Narcissa's voice was bitter and heartbroken and Hermione had the overwhelming urge to crawl across their crooked sofa and envelope the woman in a hug.

"Don't say that," she scolded not unkindly. "I've known Draco for seven years and if there's anything he's good at, it's avoiding consequences." Narcissa smirked. "Grant him the comfort of knowing that you are free from Voldemort. That's all he wants."

Narcissa took a shaky breath and blinked rapidly and Hermione realised she was on the verge of crying. Hermione turned back to her notebook, not wanting to invade Narcissa's privacy, and wrote down all the relevant information she could think of for the day. There wasn't much of it, truth be told, other than the fact that their magic was misbehaving at times.

New wands? Hermione hypothesised in ink. Environmental factors? She tried to keep it all as vague as possible so a potential thief wouldn't be able to understand what she was talking about.

When she'd exhausted the academic stuff, Hermione tried to draw the owl they'd seen, but she'd never been strong in the arts and it ended up looking hysterically deformed with a smudged lump instead of a wing. She smiled at that and then spelled the page blank again.

"You should sleep soon."

Hermione frowned. "Why? I'm not tired. You can sleep first. I'll go on watch for a few hours."

"You've been awake for a very long time," Narcissa reminded her, standing from her position on the sofa. Clearly she was getting ready for the night watch. "You need to rest."

"I'm fine," snapped Hermione irritably, and she was surprised by how upset she was. Narcissa seemed surprised as well, for she turned and gave Hermione her full attention.

"You don't want to sleep?" It was more a statement than a question and Hermione did not grant it an answer. "We tested the wards thoroughly," she reminded her in what was obviously supposed to be a reassuring voice. "We're safe here."

"That isn't the issue," Hermione responded quickly. "Sleeping doesn't do anything for me—I wake up feeling worse than when I went to bed. It's a waste of time."

Narcissa paused for a confused moment. "You can hardly avoid it forever."

"No, but I can try," snorted Hermione under her breath and she took up her notebook again, staring at it with grim determination even as Narcissa sighed and sat down right beside her on the sofa. She knew she was being ridiculous, but the sudden bitterness in her bloodstream left no other option.

Narcissa's voice softly broke through. "Is it nightmares?"

"It's more than that. They're so intense that I can't figure out whether they're real or not and then I wake up—and I have no way to tell whether the images in my head are made-up or actual memories." Hermione was blushing, she could feel it, so she kept her gaze directed firmly at the open pages in her lap. "It's a lot easier to just stay up until I pass out, unless—can't you give me that spell? The one that puts me to sleep. That always helps."

Narcissa frowned and sat back against the deformed cushions. It was strange to be side-by-side like this, so close. Hermione could feel the other woman's warmth and the shape of her frame so nearby.

"It isn't healthy to become so dependant. Besides, that spell was never meant to be used for sedation like I use it on you."

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "It wasn't? What for, then?"

"It is a pain reliever, though perhaps a more moderate one." Narcissa shrugged. "When I was a new mother, I bought a book on elementary healing. That particular spell is intended to assuage things like sprained joints or twisted ligaments, though it is more commonly used to soothe hysterical children."

"Like Benadryl."

"Pardon?"

"There's a Muggle drug called Benadryl," Hermione explained, turning to face Narcissa as the information impatiently sprang from her tongue. "It's meant to treat allergies but one of the side-effects is drowsiness. It's practically an unofficial sedative, though the companies who make it always say not to use it that way."

Narcissa bowed her head in concession. "Yes, they are similar." Her eyes turned wicked as she added, "And I imagine that it is just as unhealthy to rely on this Muggle substance for sleep?"

"Alright, yes," Hermione admitted, slouching back down into the pillows. The playful banter of their exchange was extinguished. "But it's so much easier."

Hermione's whisper hung around them for long moments, mingling with the heady warmth of the fire and intoxicating them with the feeling of safety.

"What if I were to stay with you? Until you fall asleep?"

Hermione gave Narcissa a look which clearly communicated how impractical she found that idea, but Narcissa returned it with nothing but open compassion. Hermione blushed.

"That won't necessarily help—I'll still wake up."

"You don't know that," reminded Narcissa who stood from the sofa and began to magically rearrange their one-room tent. Tucking away the coffee table (though the furniture was very reluctant), she set out the blankets and pillows by the fire. Surprisingly, they'd managed to put together a very comfortable sleeping arrangement despite the lack of a bed.

Narcissa ordered, "Come, lie down," and Hermione obeyed, feeling rather silly as she sat on the blankets and discretely wriggled her feet out of her shoes. "Do whatever you must with your notebook for another fifteen minutes," Narcissa handed her the book and pen. "Then try to rest. I will be here." With a satisfied smile, Narcissa sat back upon the sofa, barely a foot away.

Hermione huffed at Narcissa's stubbornness, both frustrated by it and unwillingly admirable. With a private smirk, she realised this must be how Harry and Ron felt most of the time.

Hermione dallied as long as she could, writing down meaningless questions into her notebook until Narcissa took the thing away from her and urged her to rest. Hermione wanted to protest, but it was pointless when she was so exhausted and the damned book wasn't exactly useful when she had no good information to write in it. Besides, with Narcissa sitting so close, she couldn't deny the security it brought.

She could murder me in my sleep, her brain mused. Well, probably not, but she could turn me in to the Death Eaters and that's basically murder. How very odd it was that the pair of them could go from amiable conversation to tense discourse fraught with distrust. It was emotional whiplash, never quite being able to keep track of where they stood with the other. Hermione hoped it would balance out soon.

Rolling onto her side so that she was facing the hearth and away from Narcissa's eyes, she tugged the blankets with her until she was huddled in a plush cocoon. She thought of Harry and Ron and wondered if they were in a tent like this in a forest somewhere, perhaps nearby. Her thoughts travelled from them to the rest of the Order, then to the Death Eaters, and then her breathing became so erratic as terror seized her completely. She could hear Narcissa's tiny movements and forced herself to hold her breath, not wanting to attract attention to herself. Her throat hurt and she felt dizzy but the steady metre of Narcissa's breaths guided Hermione's own as she brought herself back to a calm state and tears began to ooze onto the pillow.


	16. Mirage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the delay. As always, I appreciate any and all feedback!
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Mild blood, vague torture flashback

The fact that Voldemort was Hermione's partner for a Potions project made total sense. It was not unusual, therefore, when the Dark Lord accidentally added too many withered petals of jadewood and the substance in their cauldron turned a violent shade of green instead of the putrid yellow it was supposed to.

Hermione looked at their potion sadly and silently mourned her grade on the assignment as Professors Snape and Dumbledore approached the table.

"Well," mused Snape darkly and Hermione prepared for whatever snide jab was about to be unleashed by his merciless tongue.

Voldemort beat him to it, though, and hissed "Mistakes such as these are to be expected with such poor quality facilities and peers!" Hermione opened her mouth in offence but the Dark Lord was totally ignoring her existence beside him.

Snape merely shrugged. "Then take care of it," he advised and walked away to peer into the steaming cauldron at McGonagall's table.

Somewhere in her mind, Hermione was aware that her eyes were open. There was no sunlight, which suggested she hadn't slept long, and Voldemort was turning on her. Their potion gone wrong was beginning to arch out of the cauldron and reach for her.

Hermione blinked and the cool air brushed some of the fog from her mind's eye. Paralysed, she lay there on her back as the last few moments replayed in her mind.

What year had they made sentient green potion?

Oh—it had been a dream.

Well it must have been, since Voldemort had never been and would never be her classmate.

Such was the progression of Hermione's thoughts as she stood and stumbled dumbly to the flap of the tent, too disturbed by her nightmare to tolerate solitude.

"Hello," Narcissa greeted her.

"What time is it?" Hermione heard her words slur on her hoarse voice. She dropped herself beside Narcissa on a blanket.

"Nearly four, I believe." Narcissa made sure Hermione was well protected from the chill and, after a pause, handed over the cup she had been drinking from. Hermione took it and sipped the cool water.

"Did you sleep?"

"Yes."

"That's good." Silence reigned for an immeasurable moment and somewhere nearby a creature cooed into the night. "Did you dream?"

"Yes." Hermione paused, then the words came out in a flurry. "It was bizarre and frightening and disturbing. I was at school, at Hogwarts, in Potions class but Voldemort was my partner. He messed up the assignment and Professor Snape didn't care—Voldemort just blamed me." Hermione huffed out a great breath and found inexplicable tears burning at her eyes. She stared determinedly at the ground until she felt Narcissa's hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," the other woman whispered. "I'm sure it was dreadful."

Hermione looked up to Narcissa's eyes but immediately exclaimed, "Have you been crying?" Hermione didn't wait for an answer as she reached up to cup Narcissa's exposed cheek. Sure enough, there were hot trails flowing over her skin and her eyes looked swollen even in darkness. Hermione wanted to hit herself for being so selfish and forgetting that Narcissa was suffering, too. "I'm sorry. Are you alright? What's wrong?"

Surprised, Narcissa took Hermione's wrist and gently tugged it away from her face. "Hermione, please," She seemed taken aback by the gesture, but not offended. Or so Hermione hoped. Nevertheless, she was determined that Narcissa's unhappiness would not go ignored.

Narcissa was still holding Hermione's wrist in an effort to prevent her from reaching from her face again and Hermione saw that the sleeve was pushed up to the elbow. Draco's cut shone brightly on the pale flesh of her arm, a dark pink trail. In the shadows of the night-time, the contrast between her healthy skin and the wound seemed even greater. Hermione wondered whether that really was just due to the lighting, though; it looked like Narcissa had been touching the injury ceaselessly. It was inflamed and Hermione was worried about the possibility of infection.

"My apologies," murmured Narcissa as she tried to retract her arm, but Hermione was persistent.

Frowning, she said, "You don't have to apologise," and wondered how many times Narcissa had been admonished for it in the past. "What you need is to stop irritating this injury." She scanned the cut with her eyes and spotted a bead of fresh blood that had been freed from the healing skin. "Don't make me bandage it," she threatened.

Judging it to be alright (for now), Hermione released Narcissa's hand. Immediately, the woman tugged her sleeve back down to her wrist, grimacing at the obvious pain it caused to do so.

Narcissa steeled herself and straightened her back, staring ahead of her as she wiped at the tears on her cheek.

"I know what that mark means to you, but you have to let it heal."

Narcissa was silent and Hermione sighed in frustration, though she couldn't help but admire the woman's devotion. She emptied the cup of water and set it down on the grassy forest floor. It was still very dark, but she could hardly sleep more with the faces of Snape and Voldemort, both of them renowned murderers, lingering behind her eyelids.

Hermione stole a glance to her left and saw that tears were sill freshly streaming from Narcissa's eyes. Without words, Hermione reached out and wrapped her arm around the older witch's shoulders. Narcissa collapsed and Hermione found herself cradling her as she quivered and sobbed. Wretched sounds wrenched themselves from Narcissa's throat and Hermione instinctively squeezed her tighter, hoping to offer comfort.

She didn't know what to say, or if there was anything she could say at all, so instead she just silently held the witch who wept into her shoulder.

The stars had shifted by the time Narcissa's crying had weakened to a drizzle and Hermione felt the woman's frame sag against her as though it had been wrung out. But Hermione didn't budge, merely continued to stroke her finger along Narcissa's pale hairline and intertwine with a few strands. Strangely, it felt almost cathartic to soothe another person.

Hermione could sense that Narcissa wanted to say something, maybe apologise, but she didn't. Rather, she pulled herself away from Hermione's now soggy shoulder and sat upright, rubbing at her eyes and pushing her hair over shoulder.

"Are you alright?" Hermione was cautious but her voice was saturated with compassion.

Narcissa nodded shakily. "Yes," She couldn't seem to decide whether or not she wanted to thank Hermione or apologise, so she said nothing as she stared ahead.

Needing something to do, Hermione took the empty cup she'd drank from and filled it with a murmured "Aguamenti," then handed it over. Narcissa wrapped her hands around it and took tentative sips and they sat in silence again together for a bit.

"In all my life, I have never been so afraid." Narcissa's eyes closed and Hermione wished she were brave enough to reach out and touch her again. "Not during my youth, or the first war, my life as a mother or wife, or even these past years as I have facilitated the rise of the Dark Lord." Hermione wanted to flinch at the confession that Narcissa had helped Voldemort. Though she had known it to be true, it felt intrinsically wrong coming from this broken woman's lips. "I am more scared now than I ever have been."

"It's okay," Hermione responded, then wanted to kick herself for the banality of that statement. With a sigh, she admitted, "Look, this doesn't get any easier. But we'll get through it. I promise. There's nothing wrong with fear, either." With a self-deprecating laugh, Hermione added, "To be honest, I'd think you were insane if you weren't afraid."

"I always thought you impertinent and mortally foolish," Narcissa told her with a weak attempt at a smirk. "But I see now that you had no choice and have none now. Ever since you have joined our world, you have been forced to constantly retaliate in this manner." Narcissa sighed. "Except now those schoolyard jabs have turned into armed attacks and you have been moulded into a soldier in the place of the brilliant woman you should be."

Hermione blinked a few times. Narcissa's analysis was startling in its transparency and Hermione had a confusing basket of emotions in her clutch as a result.

"I am sorry."

It took Hermione a moment to realise Narcissa was talking again. "It isn't your fault," Hermione cringed. "Well, not directly, not entirely."

"You don't know that."

Hermione regarded the other woman with a look of sarcastic incredulity. "Well obviously you've contributed, but it isn't entirely your fault. Besides," added Hermione softly as her gaze returned to the silhouette of the trees against the rapidly lightening sky. "It hardly matters now."

Narcissa's eyebrows rose. "You would pardon me for all I have done against you?" Hermione gave her a look of exasperated indifference; she didn't have time or energy to hold a grudge against Narcissa Malfoy, not now. "I am the mother of the boy who bullied you for seven years," reminded Narcissa.

"Draco is a separate issue." Hermione waved her hand. "And considering he helped us escape, I'm not very angry at him right now."

"I insulted you," continued Narcissa. "Last year, at Diagon Alley. I called you filth."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione said, "Yes, and you called me a 'brilliant woman' or something to that effect less than five minutes ago."

"I declared you to be an inferior individual, undeserving of respect or dignity—"

"Don't push it," Hermione warned darkly. "I trust you now, I think. That's all that matters." Hermione repeated that mantra in her head after she said it, pushing Narcissa's reminders and the memories they induced out of her head. She couldn't afford to linger on them.

Slouching in resignation, Narcissa mumbled, "Very well, but I don't feel as though I deserve it."

"Too bad," said Hermione. "You have it anyway."

Narcissa gave her a wry smile and wiped at her eyes again, which were still swollen though thankfully no longer teary.

They settled back into silence and Hermione summoned her notebook to her lap. As she opened it and flipped through its pages, she wondered if a protective charm would be a good idea. Of course anything to ensure protection was prudent, but would it be worth it if her magic was so undisciplined at the moment?

She found the page where her list of passwords left off and summoned the radio. It ended up two feet out of her reach and she had to crawl across the ground to fetch it back, much to Narcissa's silent amusement. Straightening, she began to recite her latest hypothetical codes.

"Lupin." Nothing. "Percival." Also nothing. "Padfoot." Silence, save for the rustling of the forest.

Thirty-seven words later, Narcissa cautiously whispered: "Has it occurred to you that your friends might believe you to be dead?"

Hermione lowered her wand. "Yes." To demonstrate, she re-aimed her wand at the radio and clearly declared "Hermione. Jean. Granger." It yielded no result and she looked to Narcissa triumphantly. Both of them were choosing to ignore that just because the password failed now didn't mean that the Order knew Hermione lived.

Nevertheless, Narcissa didn't press the issue and watched with curiosity as Hermione's passwords became more and more creative. As Hermione flustered, Narcissa murmured, "The owl is back."

Hermione looked up and indeed saw the golden owl perched in its tree watching them intently. Its green eyes met Hermione's with such ferocity that it nearly took her breath away.

"Hello," she mumbled at the creature and it cocked its head in an attitude that looked almost humane.

"It must be a highly magical animal," Narcissa mused, clearly referencing the ringing in both their ears. They had both attempted to alter the wards before Hermione went to sleep, but for now it was impossible to tell whether they'd had any effect.

Hermione didn't doubt that such an unusually beautiful bird was magical. Smiling to herself, she said, "I think he likes us."

"Perhaps he is our protector," mused Narcissa with mirth.

The sight of the beautiful animal seemed to energise them both, almost as though it feasted on their anxieties and left nothing but peace on its empty plate.

"Before you were captured, you were running with your friends, yes?" Narcissa asked. Though it pained her, Hermione confirmed. "You told me in the hotel that you were hunting for magical objects which would weaken the Dark Lord."

Hermione inhaled quickly: this was the moment she'd been fearing. If she chose to cross that barrier and admit the truth to Narcissa, then there would be no turning back. True, she'd sworn to herself she would be honest and she'd already confessed plenty. What was the point in concealing secrets at this point? What would that accomplish?

She knew that she'd already made the decision, that she would tell Narcissa everything relevant to the war, but to actually carry out that choice in the chilly morning air made Hermione's palms sweat. For a month, Voldemort had tried to extract information from her; she was hardly inclined to wilfully give it up.

With frightening intensity, she remembered their demands. "Where is Potter?" She'd remained stoically silent. "Where is Weasely?" After a bit of coercion, she'd told them that she didn't know where they'd gone, which was the truth. "What is the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix?" The Fidelius had protected that information, though not Hermione. "What were you brats up to?" "What were you looking for?" "Where is Harry Potter? How will Harry Potter defeat the Dark Lord?" The voices began to outrun each other, like waves racing to the shore, and Hermione could hear Bellatrix's shrieks ringing in her ears in tandem with the buzz of the wards.

Her fist clenched in the dewy grass and Hermione reminded herself that she wasn't there anymore and that this Black sister only shared blood, not intent, with her sibling. Dirt under her fingernails, Hermione took a deep breath and resolved herself to what she was about to do and rigorously ignored the voice in her head which was screaming at her that this was an unwise and possibly deadly idea.

"It's a long story," she admitted honestly. Narcissa didn't seem deterred by the vagueness of her answer.

"Perhaps it would be better discussed over morning tea."

Hermione smiled and nodded and together they crept back inside as the sun began to make itself known and their flighty guardian began to sparkle in its warmth.


	17. Armistice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of unhealthy thought patterns, semi-nudity

Narcissa's reaction to the knowledge of Horcruxes had been threefold: First, she had been aghast not to the reality that such magic exists, but that it was the obstacle which stood between Harry, and Voldemort's defeat. She'd spent her entire lifetime surrounded by all kinds of horrific Dark Magic, so its existence came as no shock, but she was well aware how difficult it could be when you were its adversary.

Second, she had been profoundly disturbed when Hermione told her that the diary in Lucius' possession five years ago had been a parcel containing a piece of the Dark Lord's shattered soul. That her family had safeguarded such a Dark object which had harmed an innocent girl was grieving, indeed.

And third, Narcissa had been nothing less than utterly fascinated by the psychological motivations behind the Dark Lord's selection of each of his Horcruxes. Her interest had prompted Hermione to lend more details than she'd originally intended, and it proved to be worthwhile.

"My cousin, Regulus," she whispered eagerly as her finger traced the word "locket" in Hermione's handwriting on the notebook's page. Her silvery hair fell forward and she tossed it back over her shoulder, oblivious to Hermione's watching her. " _He_ discovered all this?" Narcissa's blue eyes were bright.

"He did more than discover it," Hermione explained, pointing to the word "sword" adjacent to Narcissa's fingertip. "He acted on it, too. He defected and found where Voldemort was hiding the locket. He died in the process of stealing it from Voldemort's defences."

"I had been lead to believe that he had died a faithful servant…" Narcissa was quiet for a heartbeat. "You are certain of this? You are sure it was him?"

Nodding, Hermione told her, "I held the letter myself. It was signed R.A.B. Who else could that have been, do you think?" Narcissa frowned and her gaze returned to the notebook. "Besides, we have proof from Kreacher."

"Kreacher! The house-elf?" Hermione nodded again. "I suppose they were very fond of one another." Narcissa was clearly reminiscing as she sat back on the rug, apparently thrown backwards by the force of all this new information.

"Voldemort had used Kreacher for experiments to test the defences for the locket," Hermione's nose wrinkled at this, "and I think that's what pushed Regulus to defect."

"The abuse of a house-elf sent a faithful Death Eater to betrayal?" Narcissa clarified sceptically.

Hermione pressed her palms on their little table and shook her head. "From what I understand, Regulus was initially put off by Voldemort's cruelty. He'd been uncomfortable as a Death Eater for some time; Kreacher was what finally convinced him to go through with it."

The expression on Narcissa's face was one of uncomfortable understanding and Hermione had the feeling that this is what Narcissa herself had experienced, though apparently in not as short a time frame as her late cousin.

"So if what you have written here is true," Narcissa gestured to the notebook page. "Then there is still at least one Horcrux which must be destroyed before the Dark Lord is mortal again."

"Yes, the snake."

Narcissa shivered at the mention of the animal. "I always despised that creature," she spat, tugging her shawl closer around her shoulders. "To know now that it houses a portion of its master's soul…" Her expression grew distant and her shoulders closed in. "I suppose it comes as no surprise… I wish now that I had done away with it when I'd had the chance."

A muted snort of laughter escaped Hermione. "You'd have done us all a favour, believe me," she murmured.

Narcissa smiled and re-read the list of Horcruxes a dozen times.

"I never would have guessed him to be so preoccupied with his past," she mused after a sombre pause and a few sips of tea. They both seemed to be drinking alarming amounts of the stuff, Hermione realised.

Shrugging, she answered, "He's a narcissist—no offence," she added quickly with wide eyes. Narcissa merely shook her head dismissively. "What else would he think of but himself?"

"One would think that it would make them easier to discover," Narcissa pointed out as she turned a page in the notebook to explore the rest of Hermione's writings which were no longer secret to her.

"Dumbledore theorised that it was Voldemort's aim to make seven Horcruxes in total." Hermione mentioned this as casually as one might the weather and a smirk toyed at her lips as she anticipated Narcissa's reaction. The witch did not disappoint.

" _Seven!_ " Narcissa's mouth was open in a little O. Her mind seemed to digest this information for a moment before she stammered, "Is such a thing even possible?"

Hermione shrugged. "Theoretically, yes, and since seven is such a magically significant number it makes sense that he'd try. Merlin knows he's killed enough to have the opportunity to create that many."

Narcissa was biting her lip, evidently trying to keep herself from saying something and it made Hermione frown. They'd been getting along fine so far and she didn't want that to change—they could hardly afford it.

"Perhaps we can hope that that was merely the aged delusions of an old man," Narcissa said at length and Hermione was immediately incensed; all thoughts of cheerful, harmonious allyship quickly incinerated.

"What—you think Dumbledore was a daft old fool, then?" she snapped.

"Not at all," responded Narcissa coolly. "Or at least not in his earlier days. I do not hesitate to call him one of the most brilliant and powerful our kind has ever known." Sensing that this had appeased Hermione, she went on, "However, it is no secret that his health was in sharp decline before he passed and it would be irresponsible not to consider the effect this may have had on his faculties."

"He was declining," exclaimed Hermione, "because of the Dark Magic which infected him while he was trying to deal with the Horcruxes! He wasn't an idiot!" She wanted to add something along the lines of "And your son wasn't helping matters!" but held her tongue.

"My point exactly. Would it be wise to trust the assertions of someone so heavily influenced by the Dark Lord's very soul?"

Hermione bristled, momentarily unable to construct a logical counterargument. "There are seven." She declared stubbornly, finally.

"Very well, there are seven." And the disagreement was closed. Narcissa turned back to the list as though Hermione had not been yelling at her a moment before and said, "That leaves two to be discovered and destroyed, as well as the snake."

Hermione nodded. "We were thinking that they might be objects related to Hogwarts, since the school was such a significant place to him."

Frowning, Narcissa replied, "I don't think I understand you."

"You know—possessions of the founders, things like that. Things that are really important to Hogwarts' history."

"No, I understand you there; what I fail to comprehend is why a school would be so significant to the Dark Lord."

"Well, it was the first place he really felt accepted." Hermione said simply, thinking of Harry and trying to ignore the parallels. She couldn't help but think that Narcissa must be a little oblivious if she had spent so long being so close to Voldemort and not know anything about his past. Then again, it wasn't as if he boasted about his personal history. As a blood supremacist, what pride was there to be found in a Muggle parent?

Hermione leaned forwards and gestured as she eagerly explained, "Voldemort grew up in a Muggle orphanage, knowing nothing about magic. To learn that he was a wizard and that all his strange abilities had a reason, to find a place where he could belong and be celebrated, is one of the most essential parts of who he has become."

"You sound as though you've studied the Dark Lord's psychology very well," observed Narcissa.

Hermione answered plainly, "I have. We all have—it's the only thing we have on him, really. Without this information, we'd be utterly lost."

"Is the Dark Lord aware when one of these Horcruxes is destroyed?"

"We don't know. Our best guess is no, he isn't, because if that were the case, he'd have figured out what we're up to by now and more actively tried to stop us." She looked up to Narcissa with curiosity and found the woman hunched over the notebook. "You've spent months with him, haven't you? Don't you know if he's been… I don't know, angry, disturbed, in pain, occasionally?"

Narcissa pursed her lips in a grim replica of smirk, but refused to meet Hermione's gaze. Her fingers were trailing across the paper. "The Dark Lord is always angry and disturbed."

Suddenly very curious, Hermione leaned closer. "We destroyed one-the locket—a few days after Christmas. Did you notice anything then? A shift? Was he upset or weakened?"

Narcissa looked up with a kind of conflicted sadness in her eyes which irritated Hermione. "I cannot answer; his moods are so unstable and confusing that it is impossible to tell." She moved to place the notebook in front of a now very irked Hermione and pointed to a spot on one of the pages. "However, I believe I know where some of the others may be. Or, at least, may have been in the past."

The momentary surge of irritability was forgotten in the light of new information and Hermione looked at Narcissa's eyes with unconcealed excitement. She was met by the same expression in those uniquely pale irises and they smiled together before Hermione pulled away with a blush.

Tea grew into breakfast (although it was becoming difficult to name meals when they both had such haphazard and irregular sleep schedules), over which Narcissa revealed much of her involvement with that first Horcrux: the diary. She told Hermione how Lucius had been entrusted with the diary when Voldemort was at the peak of his power. "It was a great honour for him," she said gravely, and Hermione's mind was whirring, constructing this timeline of events while also analysing Narcissa's every possible signal as she talked about her husband. There was no identifiable emotion in her tone; she could have been talking about someone she'd never met.

No one had truly known the nature of the diary "and," she pondered, "I suspect that none of them know now, either, that it was a Horcrux or that such an object even exists. I had never heard of even the theory before today." Hermione felt a smug sort of satisfaction at being the one to have introduced Narcissa to something, even if it was appalling Dark Magic of the worst kind.

Only the most faithful of the Dark Lord's servants were entrusted with objects or assignments such as the diary. Lucius was not the only one and Narcissa was easily able to produce a list of a handful of Death Eaters who were in possession (or had been) of similarly significant items. Hermione's eyes were wide and attentive as Narcissa's elegant script committed the possibilities to paper while she commentated.

"There is a garter embellished with rubies, believed to be an heirloom of Gryffindor's, which was placed in the Carrows' vault. This was many years prior to his initial defeat. Then there is my sister's charge: a cup believed to have belonged to Hufflepuff. That resides in her vault as well, to my understanding. Now, I know that the locket was Slytherin's, but to my knowledge there are at least a few more relics of his which the Dark Lord bequeathed to his servants. Given his affiliation with that house and the significance of his heritage, I would not disregard the possibility that there could be numerous Horcruxes associated with Slytherin."

Nodding frantically, Hermione agreed. When Narcissa had finished her list, Hermione turned the notebook so she could read it over. Her handwriting was slender and curved, much like the woman herself, and steadily made its way across the page in even lines. In contrast, Hermione's was far more angular. It made her wonder what Ron would say; he'd always called her handwriting "girly" while plagiarising her essays. Narcissa's was probably too feminine for his comprehension.

Hermione looked back to Narcissa and saw her gazing out towards the open tent door. They were both energised and excited by the idea that they could be of use, that they could actually _do_ something tangible rather than drift around the country in a tent that had been transfigured within an inch of recognition.

Narcissa turned back to meet Hermione's eyes and gave her one of the most earnest smiles she'd yet seen upon the witch's lips. "Would you like to go for a walk?"

Hermione smiled. "Alright."

They packed up their tea and breakfast and ducked out the tent. Warm, morning sunlight immediately accosted them and they let it be their fuel. Almost immediately, Narcissa wound her arm through Hermione's and Hermione felt herself grow even warmer in self-consciousness. She couldn't help but feel that they must look like a pair of ladies from a Jane Austen novel, except looking very much decrepit and far less elegant in their Muggle clothes and weary bodies.

"Look up there," Narcissa extended the arm which wasn't hooked with Hermione's and pointed to the sky where the glint of shimmering feather could be seen. Smiling, she said, "I believe our friend is still keeping watch."

Hermione followed the bird's flight, thinking that it was either circling them as a predator or as a protector. She hardly noticed the thrum of the wards against her mind anymore.

"If you were Harry," she said suddenly without preamble. "we would be breaking into Gringotts right now."

Narcissa laughed, not unkindly. "Why am I not surprised? That is very characteristic of you three, I understand."

"Well, not _all_ three of us." Hermione answered, feeling a little defensive. "I'm always the one stuck convincing them to come up with a plan before running head-first into danger."

"Leave it to the ladies to save their men from their own foolhardy pride." Narcissa said wisely and Hermione didn't quite know how to answer that. She was stuck trying to match this Narcissa, the one who walked around a forest with their elbows linked, to the one who wore finely crafted robes and accessorised them with impenetrable hubris. And what could she mean by saving men from their pride? It hardly seemed that Narcissa had ever endeavoured to prevent Lucius or Draco from their schemes. Schemes which, she might add, were far more malevolent and deadly than Ron and Harry's adolescent recklessness.

Hermione must have been quiet for longer than she should have been because Narcissa spoke again. "So if it is you that prevents your friends from going through with their plans without thought, who is the one that keeps you in check?"

Hermione opened her mouth, stunned. "I beg your pardon?"

Undeterred, Narcissa gave Hermione a quizzical look and reiterated, "Who is it that stops you from getting ahead of yourself, in all your impassioned logic?" Narcissa's tone wasn't cruel, but Hermione couldn't help but interpret her words as insulting, and she was surprised by the strength of the sting. It hijacked her thoughts and hit the accelerator. Her thoughts became incendiary as they leap-frogged over each other, flying off and crashing against her skull before imploding, the shrapnel wreaking havoc on everything below.

She had thought that Narcissa was on her side, had trusted her. But then why would she think that? Wasn't it far more likely that this mistress of Slytherin was tagging along to keep herself alive and silently laughing at Hermione's foolishness along the way?

"Are you saying you think I'm reckless? That I don't consider the dangers—the fact that my loved ones' _lives_ are what's at stake, not to mention my own?" snapped Hermione.

Narcissa's eyes quickly flicked to Hermione's expression and it was obvious that she hadn't understood what effect her words would elicit. The physical distance between them broadened a fraction as Hermione took a step to the side like a wounded animal and Narcissa recoiled from her words. But together, they continued to stroll on.

Evidently weighing her response, Narcissa finally said lowly, "I do not mean to suggest that you do not value the lives of others."

Hermione nodded rigidly. "Thank you."

"Do you believe your judgement infallible?"

"Of course not," Hermione scoffed. "No one is perfect. But who do you suggest double-check our plans when my only options are two boys who are already halfway out the door?" Hermione said this with a kind of shrill, emotional wail in her voice and she hated it. She hated talking about this, hated that Narcissa had discovered one of insecurities like a leaf upon the ground and was now prodding it with her shoe, hated that her mind now behaved like a skittish horse which became spooked at the slightest disturbance; a horse which she was hopelessly unequipped to reign.

She missed Harry and Ron desperately.

"I don't mean to upset you, Hermione," Narcissa said, her voice determinedly even and careful. Once again, Hermione wondered when they'd got on a first-name basis. "I merely wondered."

"Are you worried that my plans won't keep us safe?" Hermione didn't bother trying to phrase it delicately; as far as she was concerned, they couldn't afford to waste time with politeness on the truly important matters. Veils of cordiality would only get knotted and distort the truth.

"Of course," answered Narcissa plainly. "But that is a possibility regardless of whose company I keep." Narcissa paused, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side as she composed her thoughts before speaking. "You see, I have heard much about you and the way you and you friends go about your adventures, and I merely wish to have a less obstructed understanding of events that I've heard of so frequently. To put the pieces together, so to speak."

Hermione mulled this over a moment. She could feel the horse begin to soothe, the dust to settle. "What do you want to know?"

"Whose idea was it to go to the Department of Mysteries two years ago?" Narcissa's voice sounded oddly tight and restrained.

"Harry's, absolutely. Voldemort had put images of Sirius Black being tortured in Harry's mind and he was so afraid of losing his godfather that he insisted we go to London. I wanted to communicate with the Order and make sure Sirius was really in danger, but Harry was..." Hermione's heart sank as she remembered Harry's frantic terror, the way he'd been near-hysterical in his grief. It was impossible to be smug about the fact that she'd been right all along, not when Harry's heart was being slowly decimated by loss.

"I see," was Narcissa's tactful answer. A handful of heartbeats passed before she spoke again with barely-concealed curiosity. "I'm very curious about this organisation you constructed. Dumbledore's Army, was it not called?"

Hermione had the feeling that Narcissa was asking questions that she already knew the answers to, but she nodded nevertheless. "That was my idea, actually. It took ages to convince Harry to do it."

"Do you regret it?"

This was a question Hermione did not know the answer to. Would they have been better off without Dumbledore's Army? Perhaps in the short-term, yes; Umbridge would not have been able to abuse them in the way she did and it was unlikely Dumbledore would have fled as he'd done. But then who knows what would have happened in place of those events? And how on Earth would they have fared without Harry's tutelage, without that family they'd formed in the Room of Requirement?

"No, I don't regret it."

Narcissa hummed in a pondering sort of way. The sentiment was echoed by a haunting coo through the branches.

"Forgive me, I'm merely trying to reconcile who you are with what I have heard. I was told that you cursed the girl who outed your secret."

Hermione didn't need to ask where she had learned this. However, her sudden dismissal of it was confusing. "…Yes, you heard correctly."

Narcissa tensed and her pace slowed. "You cursed that student? With that horrid deformation?"

"She betrayed us! We had to have some way to suss out the traitor!" Hermione's indignation spilled forward and she had to clench her jaw to keep her tongue in check. The horse reared up again. How dare this woman criticize the morality of her decisions in this way? Was this not the height of hypocrisy?

Narcissa was either ignorant to the extent of Hermione's temper or unafraid of it, for her voice was cool and composed as she probed further. "And you consider permanently cursing a child for an innocent mistake to be the appropriate action?"

"It was not an 'innocent mistake.' That group was… it was a family for us. You can't understand what it was like in that climate and how much we needed each other. What Marietta did was… she betrayed us."

"She was a young girl under the effects of Veritaserum and the Ministry of Magic! How do you suppose you would fare in her place?"

"I _was_ in that situation! I didn't betray my friends." Hermione was struggling not to raise her voice.

Narcissa's, on the other hand, was eerily soft. "I see. So you deem it your right to brand her for the rest of her life for not living up to your own standards."

Hermione wasn't sure when they'd stopped walking, but now their frozen postures facing one another, toe-to-toe, suddenly felt very significant as the accusation hung between them.

"Did you not think of what she would endure for it? The humiliation of being forever scarred, a punishment for innocence? How do you imagine she might feel every time she sees her own face? How will she explain it to her children?"

The images curled into existence in Hermione's mind, a bitter mist depicting a middle-aged Marietta looking into the innocently curious eyes of smaller versions of herself. Hermione's gut contracted, twisting and knotting itself into a heavy rock of guilt which sunk low in her abdomen, black and putrid. She saw herself from those children's eyes: an incomprehensible monster who carved evidence of her own superiority into the dignity of others. There was no direct accusation in Narcissa's voice, and she did not call her names, but in a way that made it so much worse because it left the coils of Hermione's thoughts to unfurl and easily do that job without aid.

"I cannot understand how you can be painted as a hero of compassion and yet be so cold-hearted and ruthless."

"You don't know anything about me." Hermione declared bitterly, her tone frosty and dark. This conversation had not gone where she'd expected and she was desperate to have the last word and be done with it before it tore her apart.

"You're right—I know nearly nothing of who you truly are. But I think I should like to."

Hermione said nothing, kept staring stoically at the trees that seemed to stretch on forever in all directions. In the course of one dialogue, Narcissa had managed to single-handedly unearth some of Hermione's deepest insecurities and lay them bare for judgement. Doubts she didn't even know she had had been torn from her soul, leaving her to choke on the vacuum left in their place.

She felt stupid and juvenile and these were not adjectives Hermione often encountered or enjoyed.

With a stiff nod, just enough to convey her acknowledgement, Hermione stared very deliberately at a deep pond a few yards in front of them. In a last-ditch effort to save her pride, she bit out, "I'm going to go bathe over there, if you'll excuse me." Hermione began walking off before Narcissa could say "Very well" and in a matter of moments, she was alone in the woods.

In all honesty, she wasn't sure where she'd got this idea (or if it was terribly wise), but she went with it anyway and began to methodically peel away her clothes. She'd seen Narcissa duck in the tent in her peripheral vision and the forest was serenely quiet, but Hermione kept her wand in hand, jumping at every slightest sound. Her thoughts were still galloping ahead of each other, carrying on an invisible argument that spiralled out in a hundred different directions; a fractal of possible come-backs and witty retorts to rescue her pride and self-esteem. They became louder, more brutal and more out-of-character with each imaginary response.

Hermione let her thoughts do as they please, as her limbs operated entirely on their own to pile her clothes on the ground.

She hadn't properly washed since that blissful bath at the hotel. While she tended to prefer magical methods to the questionable hygiene of the wilderness, right now nothing sounded better than submerging herself in this murky pool of spring rainwater. It would rinse her of the grime on her skin and replace the smell of fear with one of earthly balance and clarity.

Her toes tangled with the mud and she let the sensation push her screaming subconscious into silent submission. She could not afford to question herself, not now, not when confidence was the key to survival. She had been right with Marietta and she was right now.

She waded out, nude but for her underthings, and immediately her breath deserted her. The water was frigid and her skin prickled in protest as she moved deeper, feet numb and slippery underwater. The water crept up to her thighs. In a split-second of perhaps dangerous abandon, she tightened her grip on her wand and launched herself forward.

The water sliced at her as she dove, an endless sea of needles assaulting her at every turn.

When she could breathe again, she laughed.

This was all that mattered. This freezing pond which clawed at her flesh and soaked her meagre cotton provisions right through. As far as Hermione was concerned, the universe only reached as far as the water's laps against the muddy bank.

It felt strange to be back in the real world after a month of captivity. Time had become warped. It seemed as though she had been imprisoned forever and yet not long at all. And now, here she was with all the freedom in the world. It was a heady thing; all this stimulation, all the possibilities…

_I am safe, I am safe, I am safe…_

_Narcissa will protect me._

_Will she?_

She had thus far.

That had to count for something, didn't it?

It was too easy to get caught up in confused second-guessing and suspicion. The Hermione that had been imprisoned and damaged desperately wanted to trust Narcissa, to keep her near and protect her; while the Hermione that was Harry Potter's ally and warrior for the Light had nothing but malevolent resentment for the woman.

Hermione expelled these thoughts with a sigh and leaned back in the water so that it just graced the nape of her neck. The water was made murky by the mud and grasses which polluted it, but Hermione found that she didn't much care and she observed the silhouette of her body through the grimy veil in mild fascination. As her gaze travelled upwards, she found herself staring at a smattering of acne across her chest, creeping up between her barely-there breasts like moss.

 _Really?!_ She wanted to shout at her body. _After all this, with a_ war _raging around us, you still bother to go through all this?_ She supposed in a way it should be reassuring; it was, after all, proof that she was alive and that her body was still operating, tugging her along through each frightful day. But at the same time, it seemed ludicrously unfair that she still had to deal with _pimples_ on top of everything else.

With a determined huff, Hermione straightened herself in the water and bent her knees so that her chest was submerged. The frigid temperature stole her breath and she took short, gasping inhalations as she vigorously rubbed at the pink spots with the heel of her hand. After all, she hadn't been able to bathe properly during that month in Malfoy Manor. No wonder her skin was a mess.

She scrubbed at her face for good measure, though it felt smooth if a little oily.

Her teeth had begun to chatter rather frighteningly in the few minutes she'd been in the water. Realising that enough was enough and acknowledging this had been a poor idea to begin with, she waded to the bank where her clothes lay. The light breeze on her skin was a sharp assault on her flesh and Hermione hastened to cast a drying charm and a " _Scourgify_!" on her muddy toes, which turned out to be blue once the dirt was cleared away.

She hurried back to the tent where she found Narcissa wrapped up on the rickety sofa. The woman wasted no time speaking once their eyes met.

"Are you alright? I apologise if I offended you."

Hermione opened her mouth and closed it again. She'd half forgotten about their quarrel and she couldn't decide whether she wanted to pretend it had never happened and move on or cling to her tender pride.

"Yes, just cold," was all she said as she strode to the makeshift fireplace to light it again. She wasn't sure which option she'd chosen.

Narcissa seemed to accept that as the conclusion of the morning's disagreements, for she stood and unwrapped the blanket from her own shoulders. "Here," she held it out. Hermione took it with a nod of thanks, taking care to avoid brushing the woman's fingers.

And with that, an armistice was silently signed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is nearly twice as long as my usual, and one of the scenes took me 2 months to complete (thanks, writer's block!). I'm very proud of it though, and I hope you enjoy it. For those of you impatient for plot, I have much in store, so sit tight.


	18. Who Watches the Watchers?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This story has been in the works for over a year now and I'm very excited for what's coming up. Longer, more action-filled chapters ahead, I believe.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Mild flashbacks, mild dissociation, mild violence

 

Hermione huddled herself with the blanket in front of the fire. True, she was dry now, but the memory of the chill still haunted her bones. The blanket's material prickled her skin; Hermione didn't remember buying it and assumed that Narcissa had transfigured it from something. That would explain the odd gradient of colour, from forest green to baby pink, and the slightly uneven stitching. It almost made Hermione smirk, the concept that such an immaculate and aesthetically-conscious person's magic could birth this rather slapdash creation.

She heard Narcissa's slight movements, the shifting of her body against the sofa where she had re-seated herself and the brush of her shoes on the floor. The witch had probably never worn trainers in her life. Hermione wondered whether they were more comfortable than whatever obscenely expensive, luxurious shoes that were no doubt her custom.

Reaching down, Hermione picked at her own laces. It was nice to wear new shoes after wearing down the same old pair through months of dramatic weather and running. Lots of running.

Funnily enough, she couldn't shake her frugal habits and had bought the cheapest pair at the sporting goods store, despite their technically unlimited purse.

Narcissa's soft whispering brought Hermione back to the present, in their warm little tent with all its awkward magical adjustments. Hermione didn't turn, but she could hear the sound of the cup being summoned to Narcissa's waiting hand and the gentle trickle that followed a murmured " _Aguamenti_." There was a dull _splat_ , suggesting that a good dose of the water had made its way onto the rug. Narcissa made a small noise of annoyed frustration before magically cleaning the mess with a decisive flick of her wand. The sofa's lumpy cushions hissed as she leaned back and curled into the corner of the couch.

Hermione pictured all this as she stared into the fire, blue shadows of the flames prancing across her vision. She wondered when she'd learned all of Narcissa's subtle movements to the point that she could perfectly generate them in her mind's eye. In that month when Narcissa had been her—her what? Servant? Hermione made a face. _Yeah, right_.

Well, whatever Narcissa had been then, it certainly shouldn't be enough for Hermione to feel so naturally accustomed to her presence. It seemed odd and almost disturbing, but Hermione couldn't find it in herself to be upset or put out by it. Rather surprisingly, she instead found it to be the closest thing to comfort she'd felt since those snatchers had stolen her from Harry and Ron, or perhaps since this blasted Horcrux hunt had even begun.

She could hear—or maybe sense was the more appropriate word—Narcissa's steady, gentle breathing behind her. Hermione closed her eyes and let the even repetition soothe her, harmonising with the morning sounds of forest breezes and waking animals. Hermione soaked in the moment, the sheer peace of it, and without her noticing, matched the pace of her breaths to Narcissa's.

Hermione remained in that quasi-meditation for a long time. The pulsing waves of heat from the fire continued to wash over her, but she was far too serene to bother to release the blanket from around her shoulders.

Eventually, the unpleasant dryness manifesting on her tongue pushed her to her feet in want of a drink, perhaps another cup of tea. She thought of their Horcrux discussion only a few hours ago and wondered what occupied Narcissa's unvoiced thoughts.

Part of her was scared to ask out of fear that whatever Narcissa answered would unbalance this precarious trust. But what did that trust even mean if Hermione was afraid of Narcissa's honesty?

Hermione turned, possessed by a moment of Gryffindor courage. But her question fizzled in her throat when she found Narcissa sound asleep in her cosy nest of pillows.

Of course—she'd been up all night keeping watch. No wonder she was exhausted.

Narcissa's neck curved such that her head essentially rested on her shoulder. Hermione had fallen asleep studying in the common room enough times to know that Narcissa would be mightily uncomfortable when she woke. Once again, Hermione was torn between the urges to leave her be or to help; the sympathetic Jekyll vs. the prejudiced Hyde constantly struggling to work it all out. In a way it was ironic: here, _she_ was operating on outdated prejudices which seemed to hold little relevancy in the present.

Before she could change her mind, Hermione took the few steps behind the sofa. Magic was the more appealing tool in this situation, but with the wards affecting their spells so greatly, she couldn't quite stomach the risk that she would accidentally incinerate the cushions or sever Narcissa's incomprehensibly glamourous hair. (Though in Hermione's rather cynical opinion, people with such unglamorous histories were undeserving of silky locks. They were on the run, for goodness' sake! At war! Hermione was suffering from acne while Narcissa's head resembled spun gold.)

While her feminine side ranted adamantly in her head about the unfair distribution of beauty, Hermione tentatively reached for Narcissa's head. The woman didn't stir at the touch of Hermione's fingertips against her crown, so Hermione gently eased her hand forward until she was cradling Narcissa's temple. Her skin was impossibly warm and soft, and once again Hermione was reminded how long it had been since she'd had companionship and intimacy. Her emotions welled up, twisting violently like a hurricane, and she held her breath as she felt them struggling to break free.

Narcissa gave a tired little moan and shifted, saving Hermione the job of lifting her head. Hermione wasted no time shoving a pillow where her hand had been and retreating. Narcissa squirmed, snuggling into the new neck support, and then was still and silent.

Letting out a breath, Hermione rubbed her palm on the thigh of her cargo pants, as if that would erase the burn of Narcissa's skin.

Hermione wasn't sure if Narcissa had woken or not. She hoped she had not. She didn't want Narcissa to know that Hermione had sympathised enough to help; it felt like admitting a weakness and Merlin knew that Narcissa knew enough of those already.

The moment having passed, Hermione strode straight out of the tent, radio and notebook in hand, and spread out her jumper on the grassy ground. If they kept on drifting like this, with no particular aim or direction, then she would lose whatever fragments of sanity she had left.

With the radio positioned in front of her, Hermione opened the notebook sitting on her crossed legs and started from the beginning of the list.

~*~

She was mid-way through nibbling a rather limp snap pea when she first heard it: the droning hum in the distance, floating through the tree trunks and foliage. This noise was not the ringing of the wards, but something far more dangerous: voices. _Human_ voices.

Immediately, ice flooded her veins. Hermione couldn't move and her limbs went cold. She could feel the panic beginning to swell in her gut; she had to choose a course of action before it took complete control.

Her mind generated a list of the possibilities: a) They were Muggles, they would be repelled by the wards, they would leave; b) They were Muggles, the wards would fail, they would be found, potentially catastrophically; c) They were ally wizards; d) They were Death Eaters.

Hermione's pulse began accelerating from the dreadful slow _thud, thud, thud_ at which it had been marching. In a matter of moments, it beat thunderously.

Standing quickly, Hermione stumbled back through the tent, radio and notebook clumsily held against her chest. She stopped dead as soon as she was inside, and the notebook dropped from her arms in a flapping, fluttering flurry of paper. Narcissa was still sound asleep on the sofa as Hermione had left her a few hours ago.

Should she wake her?

If she didn't, an outnumbered duel might mean Hermione got the pair of them captured.

If she did, Narcissa might do something unexpected—like deliberately call out to the strangers. After all, wasn't it still a possibility that Narcissa was still allied to the Dark Lord?

No, not even a Slytherin could be so expertly deceitful. Or at least that's what Hermione would tell herself. She couldn't afford this doubt.

Hermione set the radio on the ground as gently as she could and hurried over to where Narcissa slept. Reaching out a hand, she grabbed the woman's shoulder. It pressed into her palm in a steady rhythm as Narcissa breathed.

"Wake up," Hermione hissed. "Narcissa, wake up," she tried shaking her shoulder a little. "I think I hear people." Hermione hated the fear in her voice.

Narcissa didn't show any sign of stirring, so Hermione threw caution to the wind and shook the sleeping woman as vigorously as she felt capable of with her fear-logged limbs.

That did the trick. Narcissa sat bolt upright and her arm flew out, striking Hermione across the face with a sharp clap and sending her straight to the floor. "Get away!"

The blow rang through Hermione's skull as she lay on her back and for a moment she was totally disoriented. She heard Narcissa's gasp of realisation and tried to push herself up to a sitting position. Honestly, after what had been done to her Malfoy Manor, that slap had been almost painless.

Hermione didn't give Narcissa time to apologise.

"I think I heard voices outside."

Narcissa stared, mouth half open as her sleepy brain tried to catch up.

"Voices," she replied dully. "What kind of voices?"

"I don't know—I couldn't hear them clearly. Male, maybe?" Hermione wondered if Narcissa thought she had lost her mind. Wasn't hearing voices one of the first signs of insanity? No doubt she'd endured enough Cruciatus to make it a possibility.

"Were they approaching?"

"I couldn't quite tell. I came here immediately."

"What do you suggest we do?" Narcissa was prying herself off the sofa and creeping towards the tent flap. Hermione watched in mild surprise; she had half expected Narcissa to take charge. Instead, she was turning to Hermione to lead. It was a pleasant surprise.

Except for the fact that Hermione felt frantic and clueless.

Standing, Hermione followed on outside. Her cheek still stung, but she didn't care. In a way, it was actually fortunate; the strike had spared her the fear and anxiety for the time being.

Hermione watched, legs parted in a defensive stance in preparation to attack or run or both, while Narcissa took a few tentative steps toward what was definitely the hum of male voices. They sounded louder and clearer than when Hermione had first heard them, approaching from the left of the where they stood. Hermione could distinguish two speakers, one with a bright, cheerful sound and the other a darker timbre, like a storm cloud. She heard the unintelligible deep voice make a quip and their companion laughed. It was a sharp, abrasive sound that echoed through the trees. Narcissa snapped around and met Hermione's eyes with her own wide ones.

Hermione moved to the woman's side quickly. Her wand was slick in her sweaty palm. "I don't want them to get any closer. If they aren't Muggles, I'm not sure the wards will keep them out."

"Yes, I agree."

They shared a silent look. Hermione didn't fancy actively inviting confrontation, but if they waited much longer they might lose their few advantages.

"I could stun them? Then a memory charm?" Why must her voice be so high and fearful?

"Alright," conceded Narcissa with equal hesitation. This was a far cry from the brash impulsiveness of Harry and Ron. Though in this moment, Hermione almost wished for it. This slice of time when they were all limping with indecision was agonising.

Mind suddenly made up, Hermione quietly rushed forward and dashed behind a tree. In the corner of her eye, she saw Narcissa do the same on the other side of the tent. She was completely invisible behind the trunk, save for the point of her wand aimed out the side.

The voices were so close now. Hermione could pick out almost every word. It sounded like they were discussing some sort of party, but none of their vocabulary gave away whether they were Muggle or magical. Hermione frowned and tried to control her trembling. Why must they be so infuriatingly vague?

"I dunno," said the brighter voice resignedly. "I reckon things'll change soon."

The other individual grunted in what was either agreement or disinterest.

"I mean, they can't keep doing this to us, right? We work too hard. We deserve more."

Another grunt, this one longer and more nuanced, a wordless dismissal.

Hermione could see their movements now, shadows of their steps flickering around her peripheral vision. The sound of their footsteps crunched dully through her head, winding her fear up to stratospheric levels. Other than Narcissa, she hadn't seen allies in over a month. The potential for danger here was extreme, and Hermione's mind was suddenly filled with violent memories, shrieks and strikes and maniacal laughter resonating through her bones. Hermione cowered, curling in on herself.

 _There_. She could see them now. They were wearing simple trousers and coats. One had shortly cropped sandy hair, the other a thick, wiry nest of dark hair which reached past the ears with a beard to match. They could be Muggles. They could be Death Eaters. Hermione was more inclined toward the former. Blood supremacist were more likely to flaunt their status with very wizardly-looking robes, after all. Weren't they?

The pair was still far away enough not to cross the wards, but Hermione could hear a low buzz their presence triggered. It grew more intense with every pace closer they came.

Hermione turned in the opposite direction and found Narcissa's little blonde head peeking out at her from behind the rich tree bark. Her expression posed a question: "Are you going to act?" Hermione wanted to nod but found herself stuck, overcome with fear and self-doubt. She'd only have one chance to get them, then they would work out what was going on. If they were Muggles, that could be disastrous. What on Earth would non-magical people make of spells flying at them? And if they were indeed Death Eaters, the results could be deadly.

Narcissa gave her a little nod of encouragement and Hermione steeled herself, lifting her wand arm. The buzz of the wards was nearly intolerable now, but she let the strength of her pose power her as she took a deep breath and aimed right at the bearded one's chest.

" _Stupefy_ ," whispered Hermione. She felt the rush of magic through her arm and pour out the end of her wand. The spell veered off and struck the base of a tree a few paces behind the pair, echoing with a crack that made Hermione herself jump.

"What the hell?" cried the chattier one in a manner very reminiscent of Ron.

" _Stupefy_ ," Hermione tried again, trying to make the most of the few seconds she had before the two began to counteract her attacks. " _Stupefy. Stupefy!_ " She hit one in the head and they flew backwards onto the ground.

The other one looked around wildly, trying to find their attacker and apparently oblivious to the fact that their comrade had fallen. Hermione took this time to shoot off stunners, but none of them hit. Her target suddenly tripped on the fallen body and swore before dashing behind the nearest tree trunk.

Narcissa moved faster. Before their coat sleeve disappeared, Narcissa had struck them in the back with her own stunning spell. The body fell with a _thud_ , and then all was silent.

The quiet hung for a few moments before Hermione's gasping breath shattered it. She gulped a few times, staring at the motionless bodies, daring them to twitch. Narcissa moved to stand beside her.

"Do you think there are any more?"

Hermione shook her head and realised that her wand was still extended. She lowered her arm back to her side.

Narcissa was evidently in a braver mood, for she hesitated only a moment before ambling over. Hermione followed, not wanting to put too much distance between herself and her only accomplice. Her eyes flitted about, anticipating another enemy.

She bumped into Narcissa and jumped, then realised she was standing at the feet of the bearded one. They lay on their side, their cheek pressed into the ground. Hermione reckoned they would have some impressive bruises when they came to.

Neither woman made any move to touch the corpse-like figures.

"Do you think we should search them for wands?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. If they find anything different, they'll know they ran into somebody. I think we ought to _Obliviate_ and then leave."

This was all accurate and true and logical, but only one side of the coin flipping in Hermione's head. Who knew what they would find if they searched their pockets? Wands? Pictures or descriptions of targets? Hermione imagined a _Daily Prophet_ clipping of herself with a description scribbled in uneven writing: Female, medium height, untameable chestnut hair, to be taken dead or alive…

It wouldn't be written in such kind language, of course.

And what other immaterial things might they find? Infinite memories of squirming serpentine tattoos floated through Hermione's mind.

No, if she found proof that Death Eaters were tracking them (and had gotten within a stone's throw of success), Hermione would not be able to bear it. For once, she would rather move on in ignorance. Let this one dreadful possibility live on in ambiguity. An eternal "what if?"

Narcissa obediently began to follow Hermione's implied orders. Wisely so; who knew how long their haphazardly casted and poorly aimed _Stupefy_ would keep these large, strong individuals unconscious? Clearly uncertain how to proceed, Narcissa prodded the person's shoulder with the tip of her shoe, trying to roll them over. She jumped when it worked and the body thumped onto its back.

Giving Hermione an expectant look, Narcissa waited.

This was so reminiscent of that night she had fled Bill and Fleur's wedding with Harry and Ron, only to be ambushed in a café. She had _Obliviat_ ed the memories of those Death Eaters, too. But that had been centuries, eons ago…

Hermione raised her wand, aiming it squarely between the closed eyes. In her periphery, she noted the tangled curls of the beard and how the hair crawled similarly around the perimeter of the face. It reminded her of her own.

" _Obliviate_ ," she whispered. There was no evident change in the figure, save for a slight relaxation between the eyebrows.

The other one, the one who prattled on and on, was only a few metres away. Wordlessly, Hermione went over to the second body, already sprawled on its back, and executed the spell. With a moment's thought, she added a _Confundus_ to each.

Then, she looked back to Narcissa who still stood patiently by the torso of the first.

"Is it done?"

"Yes."

"What will they remember?"

Hermione blew out a shuddering breath. "With any luck, they won't know they were attacked. They'll think they got lost." Of course, that was ignoring the very real possibility that Hermione had managed to perform the spell correctly at all, considering the foreign wand and her disobedient magic.

"And the fact that they were unconscious?"

"With the Confundus Charm, they'll be disoriented and won't trust their senses. It'll make sense to them, somehow. They'll _make_ it make sense." Hermione felt like an automated textbook. Her voice was droll and detached. She couldn't take her eyes off the bodies, hunting for the first indication of movement and ready to spring away the second they reanimated.

"Let us go, then."

Hermione nodded and let Narcissa take her elbow to pull her back towards their camp, all the while keeping her eyes on the figures. She was walking backwards.

Hermione felt like her mind was working in slow motion, lagging a few moments behind her actions like an out-of-sync audio track in a film that provided the dialogue after the actors' lips had already moved.

"You didn't want to cast the spells yourself?" she questioned suddenly.

"You have more experience with this sort of magic than I," Narcissa answered. In her detached state of consciousness, Hermione wondered how Narcissa's voice always seemed to act like a balm. Smooth, gentle, cool. Healing. "And I did not want you to suspect I am trying to circumvent your safety."

 _Oh,_ thought Hermione dreamily, her eyes still planted on the fallen figures. _That's nice…_

Perhaps they were bird watchers.

She looked up to the trees.

The owl was nowhere to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone catch the Star Trek reference? ;)


	19. Stymphalian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If you'd like to hear the inspiration behind the title of this chapter, check out my tumblr.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Anxiety, mentioned menstruation, food

Fear was their fuel as they packed up all their things, transfiguring and shrinking possessions within an inch of recognition before tossing them in the bag. Hermione had never been so slapdash in her life, but she couldn’t bring herself to slow down and do things properly.

     Narcissa was slightly more composed, but it hardly mattered when Hermione was the one doing most of the work due to her frantic speed.

     They finished just shy of twenty minutes after they had started. Standing there amidst the trees, everything they owned rested on Hermione’s hipbone in the smart little handbag. The motionless bodies of their victims still rested beyond the campsite.

     “We should move away on foot before we disapparate.”

     Narcissa wordlessly nodded and made a gesture as if to say, _After you_.

     Hermione turned and strode in the opposite direction, sensing rather than seeing Narcissa follow. She’d expected the walking to be soothing, therapeutic even, but not being able to see what lingered behind her was the equivalent of injecting fear straight into her bloodstream. The unease egged her on, nudging her heels.

     She bolted.

     Hermione had no destination in mind; she simply let that primal instinct take control of her limbs and drive her forwards, then to the left, around a tree, over a rock, swerving to the right…

     She couldn’t keep it up for very long, perhaps a minute at most. As soon as the trees seemed unfamiliar and she could no longer spot the bodies, Hermione stopped. Narcissa stumbled to a halt beside her, panting. For some reason, the woman had kept her hair down since they’d escaped. The blizzardy strands fell around her shoulders now, all disarrayed by the running. Some hung in her eyes and her cheeks were flushed pink by exertion and the chilled air. Today was the coldest day they’d yet had.

     “Sorry,” wheezed Hermione, struggling to stay upright as her thighs trembled. She wanted to verbalise how she couldn’t stay still any longer, to try and explain herself so Narcissa understood, but she couldn’t find the words. In truth, she wasn’t sure she could even explain her feelings to herself.

     It seemed she wouldn’t need to. Absently brushing hair from her face as she caught her breath, Narcissa kindly returned, “There’s no need for apology.” They both took a moment to stabilise their breathing. “Have you chosen where to apparate?”

     Hermione nodded and held out her hand for Narcissa to take. The witch’s fingers were soft and warm, securely wrapped around Hermione’s knuckles. Hermione focused on the tender velvet of her skin and dragged her mind into as calm a state as she could get it.

     She had decided on London. It was one of the only Muggle places where her memories were strong enough to confidently apparate two people. The other locations were too close to her family for comfort. After all, this was one big guessing game. If she didn’t stay one step ahead of the Death Eaters, throw them off the scent, then they would be done for.

     Picturing London in her mind’s eye, Hermione tightened her hold on Narcissa’s fingers and got ready to turn.

     But it was so hard! Her head echoed with the sound of spells being hurled through the Department of Mysteries, the shatter of glass in the café after the wedding, Dolohov’s curse slicing open her insides, Sirius being swallowed by the veil…

     Narcissa’s hand twitched and Hermione tried to focus—again.

     Was it getting even colder? Or was she imagining things?

     Hermione spun and with a _crack_ , she and Narcissa vanished.

     They had the good fortune of landing in a rubbish heap. Hermione supposed she ought to be grateful for the cushioning it provided as they tumbled onto their backs, but she really would have preferred not to reek of rotten food.

     Narcissa was struggling to catch her breath without inhaling the stench. “Are you alright?”

     “Fine,” responded Hermione as she tried to push herself onto her feet. It seemed one of the bags had ruptured, because her hand came down in some sort of vegetable compost. Had they landed behind a restaurant?

     Finally standing, Hermione took a moment to congratulate herself on not splinching either of them and took in her surroundings. It seemed they had indeed materialised behind some sort of restaurant or bar; they were in an alley between two buildings, both of which smelled of cooking food and fermenting rubbish. Noisy fans, which Hermione assumed were air-conditioning units, whirred and clunked in their metal cages mounted on the wall.

     But there were no security cameras or windows to be seen, so Hermione was satisfied.

     Narcissa joined her on her feet, brushing herself down. “Where have you brought us?” she asked curiously.

     “Um…” Truth be told, Hermione wasn’t totally sure. She definitely hadn’t intended on emerging in a pile of rotting vegetables in a dirty alley.

     But before they ventured out into Muggle territory, she needed to check, to make sure…

     “ _Wingardium leviosa!_ ” she whispered, and to her immediate delight, the rat at which she had aimed her wand steadily rose into the air, squeaking in fright. The sight of it brought back unsavoury memories of Pettigrew, but this one was quite a different colour and wasn’t missing any digits. Hermione gently lowered it back to the ground, and it quickly scurried out of sight.

     The wand certainly wasn’t the most comfortable fit, but at least Hermione could rest knowing her magic would actually obey her wishes.

     Narcissa was giving her a strange look.

     “Sorry,” Hermione muttered, pocketing her wand and leading the way out of the alley. “Just wanted to check if it worked better without the wards. I’m not quite sure where we are—I was aiming for somewhere in Muggle London, but this wasn’t it…”

     Surely they couldn’t be too far off? A few blocks away, Hermione could understand, but they couldn’t be out of London, or Britain.

     When they reached the mouth of the lane and stepped onto the street, Hermione was reassured she had not missed her target by much.

     The Tower of London loomed ahead of them, black and foreboding. Its silhouette dark and grim, Hermione imagined how it had been in its glory days: the final stop for prisoners who had defied the Crown. With a jolt, Hermione realised she had been rescued from a very similar fate, only she doubted her own execution would have been as neat as Anne Boleyn’s.

She had visited a few times, on primary school excursions and with her family. That’s what she had been focusing on when she disapparated: the warmth and security of family, of love.

Hermione turned to Narcissa beside her and almost immediately recoiled. This was not the witch she knew. This was Narcissa Malfoy. Her expression was boarded up, eyes cold and calculating as she scanned the crowds of Muggle tourists.

Hermione was utterly surprised by the pain this caused her, and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to bring _her_ Narcissa back.

     “I know where we are,” she offered, smiling a little. “I’ve been here before.”

     Narcissa turned and Hermione thought she saw some of the warmth return to her pale eyes.

     “Lead on, then.”

     Baffling herself yet again, Hermione took Narcissa’s hand and pulled her into the street.

     They had only been camping a week, and yet returning to civilisation felt like nothing short of whiplash. The flurry of words was deafening—patches of conversations in every dialect and language imaginable. Usually, Hermione had great fun trying to identify them all, but today she struggled to keep track of her own thoughts. Was it possible to experience aural claustrophobia?

     She was suddenly very pleased with herself for having the foresight to hold Narcissa’s hand, because surely the currents of bodies would have dragged them apart if not for their death grip on each other’s fingers.

     Hermione hadn’t realised just how _clean_ their campsite had been. The smell of cigarettes was making her lungs twitch and she couldn’t help but cough into her hand a few times. That, and the car fumes, exotic scents from restaurants, a thousand perfumes…

     By the time she’d dragged the two of them into a corner store, Hermione decided she’d had enough stimulation for a lifetime.

     Food. First, they needed food. Going on nothing but dried fruit, biscuits and a few packaged vegetables for a week was not enough, at least not in the quantities they had. Hermione doubted she’d eaten a full meal since that extravagant hotel breakfast when they’d first fled.

     Hermione made a beeline for the hot oven beside the coffee machine. Opening it, she was met by a puff of warm air and the smell of hot pastries of dubious freshness. Reaching in, she plucked out a plastic-wrapped meat pie, and then another. Her dormant hunger was waking in her belly.

     “Lunch,” she explained plainly to a curious-looking Narcissa.

     Once again, it struck Hermione how very much like a child this witch could be when confronted with Muggle technology. When Narcissa felt the heat in the oven, she immediately snatched her hand away.

     “But this is a heating charm,” she told Hermione.

     “No, it’s a device called an oven. I’ll explain it later, if you like. I don’t want to attract attention.”

     “Yes, of course,” muttered Narcissa in response. She bravely reached inside and pulled out the first thing her fingers brushed.

     Hermione shut the metal-rimmed door and turned to peruse the few shelves of goods. To stock up on food, they would need a supermarket, but it wouldn’t hurt to check this place, too. Scanning the rows of labels, Hermione found plenty of junk food, which she overlooked due to health concerns. (She’d be lucky if the pies alone didn’t make her sick.) Tampons—ha, she hadn’t bled since she’d run away with Harry and Ron, which was for the best, really; periods are terribly inconvenient and those boys could be very foolish about some things. Razors were equally unnecessary, as were air freshener and laundry detergent.

     Hermione went to the till where a young person reading a gossip magazine greeted them with an expression of deadly boredom.

     After Narcissa produced some miraculous cash from who-knows-where, Hermione eagerly rushed back outside to unwrap her prize. The pie’s filling was perhaps too salty and the pastry a bit dry, but to Hermione it was bliss. She could feel bits of crumb and sauce clinging to her mouth, but she took another sizeable bite anyway. She caught Narcissa give her a perplexed, slightly distasteful glance, her own meal sitting untouched in her palm.

     “Eat it, if you’re hungry. One will mind. And besides,” Hermione swallowed. “No-one knows us here.”

     Hermione watched Narcissa finger the packaging, as though testing it. A pair of chatting businesspeople in suits rudely pushed past her, causing her to frown. “It seems rather… messy.”

     Hermione nearly laughed. “It’s sort of supposed to be, I think. Just go for it; I promise not to laugh.” To prove it, she gave Narcissa a bright smile, showing off the bits of meat stuck between her teeth.

     They’d stopped walking, waiting for the lights to change. Narcissa had grasped the basics of Muggle traffic and paused with the rest of the pedestrian crowds. With a weary quirk of her lips, she gently tore apart the wrapping and brought the crust of the pasty to her lips. She took a timid bite.

     The way Narcissa’s eyebrows jumped was almost comical; the filling nearly exploded onto her lips. Hermione chortled and instinctually reached up to brush away some tomato from the corner of Narcissa’s mouth.

     “Sorry; I said I wouldn’t laugh.”

     “I was right, though—it _is_ messy.”

     Hermione’s smile widened. “But good?”

     Narcissa gave an elegant little shrug. “I suppose.”

     Hermione was happy with that. Smiling, she turned back to the road. She’d forgotten how brutal London traffic could be, especially during the lunchtime rush. The lights would change soon, surely?

     Regardless, Hermione found that after half an hour of walking, she’d rather accustomed herself to the crowds. At first, they’d been swirling masses full of potential threats. Suffocating. Now, surprisingly, she felt almost at ease.

     And she was _proud_.

     Perhaps it was due to the first hot meal in ages, but she wanted to shout, _Look at me! I did it! I’m still here!_

     She couldn’t keep the smile off her face. She looked at the people around her, with their absent eyes and cheap coffees in hand, letting herself see them as real people and not just empty bodies of matter which might hurt her. There were more people in this world than Harry and Ron, than those that wanted to do her harm, than Narcissa. The world was not a binary and it was this magnificent complexity that she was fighting to save.

     Like the child in the green jumper, trying to wake their baby sibling asleep in the pram; the student brooding in their uniform, the person eating a muffin and getting crumbs in their scarf, the one staring at her from across the street…

     _Oh_. That certainly wasn’t something Hermione had missed about civilisation. It wasn’t often that Hermione was the victim of this brand of negative male attention, but its effects never lessened. His gaze alerted all her nerve endings, but not in the way he probably imagined. This was the ancient fight-or-flight which made her self-consciously shift on her feet and step nearer to Narcissa.

     The lights changed and everyone stepped forward into a steady trot. Hermione followed, eager to pass this man and be rid of him. She was pretty sure she would find a supermarket up this next block…    

     The man’s golden hair glinted spectacularly in the sunlight, acting like a beacon. Hermione could see him weaving his way through the foot traffic in her direction.

     And just like that, Hermione’s mood plummeted into a deep, heavy dread. She tried to track him discretely, rapidly hating the congestion of people around her. She needed to _run_ , to breathe.

     She gripped Narcissa’s arm instead.

     Now only a few layers of people separated her from this stranger. Sleepy Londoners caged them in from all sides.

     Hermione stopped looking for an escape. She couldn’t.

     Her gaze locked with a pair of green, malevolent, owlish eyes.


	20. Hunting Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Due to the brevity of this chapter, I'll try to have the next one up within the week. Fair warning that my update schedule will probably get a bit uneven in a few weeks as life picks up again. As always, enjoy and let me know what you think! :)
> 
> Trigger warnings: Violence, blood, death mention

Hermione twisted around, dragging Narcissa with her. They moved against the flow of people, but Hermione pushed past them, ignoring their glares. She wished she could scream, order them to flee and save themselves. This wasn't their fight, at least not directly.

The moment her foot touched the pavement, it began. Shouts and cries shot up behind them with the sound of people being pushed into each other—or falling. Horrified screams of "Oh my God!" pierced through it all and suddenly entropy erupted on the ordinary London street.

Hermione knew this well. It was the sound of magical battle.

Narcissa, who had been silently protesting Hermione's sudden change of direction, went very pale and began to follow Hermione in a run.

The Muggle shouts behind them grew louder, more chaotic, punctuated by the smash of spells against concrete and the shattering of glass. Hermione couldn't understand what they were saying, her mind too full of fear to leave room for comprehension. _Run, run, faster, go…_

She turned sharply to the left at the end of the block. The Muggles there had no clue what lay around the corner and they scolded her as she crashed into them.

"Run," she gasped. "Run, run, run!" _Run or you will die…_

Hermione chanced a glance behind her and immediately regretted it. _He_ was there, turning the corner with two comrades and slashing his wand at everyone in his way. Hermione caught glances of green and red spellfire immediately accompanied by cries of terror. It was the world's deadliest Christmas light show. Hermione ran faster.

" _Move!_ " That could only be _his_ voice. It sounded strangely accented and for one bizarre moment Hermione thought it was Viktor Krum speaking. But no, that was impossible—Viktor didn't have brilliant golden hair, Viktor wasn't an Animagus owl…

" _Get out of my way!_ " A beam of purple magic smashed into the stones at Hermione's feet and suddenly she was sixteen again, outrunning death in the Department of Mysteries, Dolohov's curse reaching between her ribs and shredding her into strips of agony. The only thing that had saved her then was—

" _Silencio!_ " Her voice came out ragged and hoarse but her aim stayed true. As the spell stole his voice, Hermione watched those familiar green eyes harden into molten hatred.

They were gaining on them. These men were strong, whereas Narcissa and Hermione had been weakened by hunger and abuse. Hermione's legs ached and trembled but she didn't dare stop. She knew she'd never be able to start again.

Their attackers' spells were nearly hitting their mark now; Hermione felt the shudders against her shields. She wound need to counterattack soon, but that would require slowing down and thinking and doing something other than moving her legs…

She'd managed to ignore the fallen Muggles beside and behind her, either dead or wishing they were. No doubt at least one was in that incomprehensible agony Hermione had known in the bowels of the Ministry. She doubted these victims would get the dozen life-saving potions they needed.

Oh, she never should have come here…

Narcissa grabbed Hermione's forearm and lurched to the right, pulling them into an intersection. Brakes wailed as cars skidded out of their way. A double-decker bus brimming with puzzled tourists nearly ran them over; Hermione and Narcissa hid behind it as the terror continued on the footpath.

Hermione could hear sirens. How long had it been? She'd first spotted the man only minutes ago, yet she had been running forever.

The bus exploded. Three _Reducto_ s hit it squarely in the middle from the other side, causing a noise so spectacular Hermione felt it in her bones.

Now it was her turn to scream.

She and Narcissa were incoherently tugging on each other, trying to save the other and themselves from flying shrapnel as the bus collapsed in on itself. The sounds of fear were inescapable now. It weighed down the air, heavier than the smoke.

Hermione could hear the voices, the only ones not crying out in pain and fear and confusion. Narcissa's nails were painfully digging into the flesh of Hermione's palm and they both gasped for air on shaking legs.

Hermione didn't know what to do.

How does one outrun an enemy who has no qualms killing bystanders or anything else put in their path? How does one survive when outnumbered, out-armed, and too good to break the rules?

She realised it then: this was a battle that could not be won. Not by her.

They had to leave, and their attackers had to see it happen so they wouldn't continue tearing down the street to continue the hunt.

She had done it at Lovegood's, hadn't she? She could do it again.

Hermione tugged Narcissa's waist toward her and cupped the back of her neck in some bizarre semblance of a kiss, except her lips hovered by her ear. "I'll get us out of here," she promised in a fierce hiss which struggled to be heard. "Don't let go."

Narcissa nodded against her and pressed herself close against Hermione's side.

Hermione guessed that the other side of the bus must have been blown to bits because she could hear the wizards struggling to navigate the rubble, even with magic. The side behind which Hermione stood appeared mostly intact, though Hermione could see and smell flames coming from the engine.

And there was the blood on the ground. Sticky and dark against the tar, it mingled with the dirt. _Mudblood_.

One of them had become impatient and walked around the destruction. Hermione saw him now, short with dark features and running at them head-on, wand out. His first spell missed, hitting the metal exterior of the bus instead liquefying it, causing the section above to groan and collapse. Hermione prayed it would hold until they were gone.

Narcissa had shifted and now fired off hexes and jinxes for every one sent their way. Whether or not she was a good duellist was difficult to say, but this witch certainly had plenty of spells in her arsenal. Hermione only hoped they were of a gentler nature than the ones she was countering.

With Narcissa's arm still firmly around her waist, Hermione brought forth memories of childhood warmth and joy, emerald grasses and the burn of hot plastic in summertime—

She noticed Narcissa's spell miss and the man lunge the same instant she felt the tug in her belly.

It was one of the strangest sensations, having an uninvited guest tag along during apparition, and Hermione could decidedly promise it was an unpleasant one. She could feel Narcissa fighting the man's grip on her and it seemed that they spent eternity in that nowhere space between destinations before the man was gone and she found herself standing in a suburban park.

The first thing Hermione noticed was that she was alone. Where Narcissa's firm press of fingers had been now lingered a curious emptiness. Hermione nearly panicked before she gathered her bearings and noticed the body at her feet.

And the blood coming out of it.

Dropping to her knee, she hastily ran her hands over Narcissa's body to find the injuries. Her eyes were closed. Hermione could have mistaken her for dead if not for the thundering of her pulse. Its pace frightened Hermione; it felt like Narcissa's heart was trying to claw its way out of her chest.

"Narcissa," she hissed, shaking her just a little. "Narcissa! Narcissa, please wake up."

Hermione reached to cradle her head, then nearly dropped it when she felt the scarlet wetness underneath. The prospect of head injury sickened Hermione and she was only slightly reassured when she realised the wound was from where their attacker had ripped out a fistful of blonde hair in an effort to hold on during apparition.

The forearm proved to be another matter. Draco's semi-healed cut, which had barely been skin-deep to begin with, now reached down past the muscle. Hermione couldn't see clearly for all the blood and she found herself grateful; she didn't think the sight of bone would ease the spear of nausea in her gut—

But what was she to do? She had saved Ron from splinching, but here she had no access to any potions or medical knowledge beyond some meagre spells; St. Mungo's was clearly not an option, any other magical sanctuary ran the risk of being under Death Eater control… and Narcissa still bled, still lay motionless…

Hermione wrapped up Narcissa's body in her arms, took her wand in hand, and thought of fireside laughter, of sore legs, of bitter cold winds juxtaposed to the glittering sunlight—

_Please don't splinch; not again. I'll keep you safe, I promise…_

And the park was empty again, save for a dark puddle on the grass.


	21. Le Sang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the attack in London, Hermione and an injured Narcissa struggle to recuperate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm rather proud of this chapter and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Also, shout out to the lovely anon who sent me a message on tumblr! I love hearing from you guys and you can chat with me about whatever at 16-pennies dot tumblr dot com.
> 
> **Please Note** This chapter has some French dialogue. English translations will be [italicised in brackets] after the quotes. I decided to do it this way to help convey Hermione's confusion at having to rapidly adjust to a new language. I feel like this format conveys the same sort of slowed-down language processing that she's dealing with. All the French is by me and as I'm not a native speaker, please let me know if there are any errors (unless it's in Hermione's dialogue-her French is deliberately incorrect).
> 
> Thanks to Cleo on FF.net for pointing out my errors in a review! As of 27 August 2016 this chapter has been updated to fix minor French mistakes.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Blood, hospital setting, dissociation, mild description of injury

It was _cold_. Frightfully so. It stole Hermione's breath away, burned her skin as her pant leg soaked through with snow.

Snow which was rapidly turning red.

Hermione sucked in a breath which felt as though it pierced her lungs.

"Help!" she screamed, then changed tack. "M'aider! M'aider!" [ _Help me!_ ] The empty space around her sucked her voice into nothingness. She continued to wail, becoming more and more concerned when the sound didn't even cause Narcissa to stir. "M'aider!"

Skis slid into Hermione's line of sight, hissing to a stop at her side. A voice attached to them aggressively questioned her in French.

"Wh-what?" Hermione could think of nothing but the warm, bleeding body in her lap. "Parlez-vous anglais?" [ _Do you speak English?_ ]

"Non, je regrette je parle juste français." [ _No, I'm afraid I only speak French._ ] He turned to his companion, who Hermione had failed to notice until now, and hurriedly murmured in French. The second man nodded and quickly skied away down the mountainside.

Speaking very slowly, the Frenchman gestured to Narcissa's limp form. "La femme-?" [ _The woman-?_ ]

"Elle—elle a—est tombée," [ _She—she has—fell_ ] Hermione said quickly. "Et le—I mean, la, um…" [ _And the…_ ] She searched her head, trying to remember the word for "arm." "Non est le main, mais…" [ _It's not the hand, but…_ ] Hermione pointed to the exposed part of Narcissa's forearm where the blood flowed. The man hissed in shock.

"Oui, je vois le sang. Michel est allé trouver un médecin. Je m'appelle Jerôme." [ _Yes, I see the blood. Michel went to go find a doctor. My name is Jerôme._ ]

"Merci." [ _Thank you._ ] She didn't offer a name. Jerôme noticed, but said nothing, perhaps assuming Hermione hadn't understood his words. A moment later, he unwrapped a thick scarf from his neck and knelt down to gently tie a tourniquet at Narcissa's elbow where the wound ended. "Merci," whispered Hermione again.

Perhaps minutes, perhaps seconds later, a medical trolley noisily pulled up beside them. Snowmobile was probably the more apt description, though; the thing had skis on the bottom.

Hermione followed dumbly as the French Muggles pulled Narcissa onto the gurney and sped down the mountain to the hospital. Jerôme tagged along and Hermione was grateful for it when he did the talking on her behalf.

Hermione could not understand what they were saying, but she knew she did not approve being kept out of the room while they tended to Narcissa.

"Mais je-" [ _But I-_ ]

"Désolée, mademoiselle," [ _I'm sorry, miss,_ ] said the nurse slowly. "Quel est son nom de famille? Nous vous appellerons quand elle est prête." [ _What is her surname? We will call you when she's ready._ ]

Hermione wanted to protest, but Jerôme accepted the offer, leaving Hermione no choice but to answer, "Son nom est…" [ _Her name is.._ ] She cast about for a safe lie. "Wilson." Hermione wanted to cringe at how simple it sounded, how _wrong_ when assigned to Narcissa. It had been the surname of a primary school friend and the first one that came to mind.

The nurse wrote it down and Hermione was herded to a bland waiting room, a Styrofoam cup of hot chocolate thrust into her hand.

 _I shouldn't have brought her here_ , was Hermione's first thought. Narcissa lay alone in a room of Muggles and medical equipment she didn't understand. What would she think when she came to? What if these Muggles couldn't treat her injuries, or more Death Eaters showed up?

"Votre femme sera bien," [ _Your lady/wife will be well_ ] Jerôme gave her a friendly smile. His hat and ski goggles removed and his scarf knotted around Narcissa's arm, Hermione now had a clear view of his face. His eyes struck her first, their blueness reminding her of Ron, but his auburn hair which trickled down to his chin wasn't bright enough for a Weasley.

Hermione silently nodded in acknowledgment of his kind words and took a gulp of chocolate. It burned her mouth terribly, but she forced it down. She deserved it. She had brought Narcissa into danger; it was Hermione that should have been splinched…

Somewhere in her head, a voice screamed and pounded its fist, telling Hermione to _stop being so bloody melodramatic!_

She smothered it with another scorching mouthful.

Why was Jerôme sticking around, anyway? He must think her crazy: A girl who barely spoke French at a ski resort in France with a bleeding, unconscious woman on the slope and neither of them dressed for it. Hermeione's clothes were soaked through up to her knees. She couldn't feel her toes.

Distantly, Hermione noticed she was floating again. The room was too bright, none of these shapes made sense. Her body was drifting apart, her limbs no longer moving when her brain commanded. And breathing, breathing was so difficult, the strain of expansion and contraction…

The last time she had felt like this had been that hour after escaping Malfoy Manor, spellfire still on her heels. Narcissa had looked after her then. Cradled her in the London hotel until she found herself again. Hermione almost smiled at the memory of Narcissa exploring the Muggle technology like an innocent child, of getting caught in the shower's spray fully clothed.

Narcissa had wanted to go to Greece. And why hadn't Hermione let her? She could be lounging by picturesque seascapes, sunlight dripping from her fingertips instead of blood. Wasn't that what she deserved? Not this.

Time took on that strange emptiness again. Hermione treaded through pools of self-loathing and fear before finally succumbing, drowning in desolation.

When Jerôme nudged her, drawing her attention to a waiting nurse, Hermione noticed her cup was somehow empty.

"Allez maintenant." [ _Go now._ ] Hermione stood dumbly to follow the nurse. "Si vous avez besoin d'aide, mon petit-copain et moi serons ici." [ _If you need help, my partner and I will be here._ ]

Hermione looked at this stranger, logically remarked that he was extraordinarily kind, and felt nothing.

"Merci beaucoup," [ _Thank you very much,_ ] she mumbled and then followed the nurse into the depths of the hospital.

"Madame Wilson, votre amie est ici." [ _Ms Wilson, your friend is here._ ]

Hermione saw Narcissa's wide eyes ease slightly when she entered the room. Another nurse prodded at Narcissa's injured arm. Hermione stood beside the head of the bed, watching as the nurse collected some bloodied cloths and let them know _en français_ that they had found an English doctor who would be with them soon. Then the nurses left and they were alone again.

"Why do they call me Wilson?" was the first thing out of Narcissa's mouth.

"I had to give a name," answered Hermione.

"Where are we?"

"A ski lodge in the French Alps. I used to come here on holiday. With my parents."

"Are we safe here?"

"Yes. I think so. I don't know where the one that followed us went. You fought him off before we... landed."

"I am hurt."

"Yes. I brought you here after I realised you had been splinched. I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do."

"This is a Muggle hospital?"

"Yes. Not fully equipped, though. It's only meant to handle minor skiing injuries. I've no idea what they assume must've happened to you."

Narcissa's gaze swept over the room. For someone who had been out cold, Hermione thought she seemed remarkably alert.

"That woman, she said 'un médecin.' I assume that is a Muggle healer?"

"Yes; a doctor."

"And what will this doctor do to me?" Narcissa sounded only mildly apprehensive. She stared at her gored arm with a kind of academic curiosity. Hermione gently sat herself near the uninjured arm on the opposite side of the bed.

"Well, I'm not a doctor, so I don't know exactly. It looks like they've cleaned the area and probably disinfected it, too. And they've elevated it to slow the bleeding. The doctor will examine you—oh, that reminds me: Try not to say anything suspicious which might make them think this was anything other than a sport accident. The doctor will decide what's best for you. My guess is stitches."

"'Stitches?' As in with a needle and thread?"

"Essentially, yes. They can numb you if you're worried about the pain."

As if on cue, "le médecin anglais" strode into the room, flanked by a pair of nurses. His accent nearly caused Hermione's throat to seize before she reminded herself that this English Muggle in France had no reason to recognise her.

Indeed, the doctor did not spare her a second glance as he cheerfully bustled around. He reminded Hermione of Horace Slughorn and his chattiness did not fail them when he assumed Narcissa had merely had an unfortunate run-in with the pointy end of a ski pole and carried on without a syllable of confirmation from his patient.

He continued to prattle as he worked, deciding that they were sisters—no, cousins—no, aunt and niece—no, colleagues on a holiday, celebrating a promotion, an engagement, mourning a breakup, and a dozen other scenarios Hermione didn't care to comment on or remember.

Hermione remained the silent sentry at the head of the bed, squeezing Narcissa's hand when she needed it but otherwise staring out the window in an aimless daze.

By the time the doctor left and Hermione turned back to the bed, she found Narcissa staring at the knotted thread in her flesh with horrified curiosity.

"I could feel the needle move through me, and yet there was no pain."

"It's called anaesthesia." Hermione dropped back into her perch on the edge of the mattress. She felt so _tired_ and though Narcissa's presence marginally comforted her, Hermione still felt lost, intangible…

"Are you unwell?" Narcissa shifted over to make more room. "Do you require the doctor to examine you, too?"

"No. I'm just… tired."

"Then come rest." Narcissa gently tugged on Hermione with her good arm and Hermione weakly curled into Narcissa's side. _Get away from me; I've hurt you; I'm broken, stop wasting your time…_

The dark, whispering fogs swallowed Hermione with ease and she was gone.

* * *

When Hermione woke, bleary-eyed and disoriented, the pleasant noon sunlight had gone, replaced by warm tones of early evening. She lay alone in the bed, but it didn't take long to locate Narcissa sitting across the room and nursing what appeared to be a cup of tea. Thick gauze curled securely around her forearm. As she lifted her good arm to take a sip, Hermione noticed many things at once: Narcissa's hair was a disaster. Windswept, dirty, knotted and with dried black blood clinging to strands at the pack. Furthermore, she seemed to be restless; adjusting her posture every few moments and absently moving her arm, her leg, her foot, her knee. She let out a particularly long breath, as through trying to calm herself, and Hermione heard it from across the room.

Then she looked up.

"You're awake." Narcissa jumped in her seat. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," Hermione answered even though she still felt rather awful. Ghosts of half-formed thoughts rushed through Hermione's head, frantic yet lost. They urgently flew about before dissolving into mist moments later, fragments of a nightmare she would never remember. "What time is it? Do the doctors need you to stay longer?"

"Some time past four, I believe. We may leave whenever you wish."

Hermione threw her legs over the side of the bed. "Let's go, then."

"Are you sure you don't need anything?" Narcissa's voice was tender and soft in the cosy room, but Hermione only found it aggravating. They didn't belong here in this generously furnished room. Hermione wanted to leave. Now.

"Very well," Narcissa murmured as Hermione stood on shaky legs and brushed herself down. "But before we go, I must ask you something." Narcissa fidgeted with her nearly empty Styrofoam cup. When she spoke, her words were carefully measured. "When you disapparated, were you able to save my wand?"

Hermione blinked. "Don't you have it?"

Slowly, Narcissa shook her head. "No, I can't find it."

Hermione reviewed her patchy memory, distinctly remembering taking it from the park… but after that?

Hermione groped her pockets. She found her own wand and… yes, a second one beside it. She must have subconsciously put them away together.

Narcissa could not disguise her relief when the slender wood reunited with her hand.

They slid out of the hospital with practiced discretion. The spring sunlight glittered magnificently on the snow.

Narcissa breathed, "It's beautiful here," and Hermione silently concurred.

But they could not stay here. Well, Narcissa could not, and so by extension, neither could Hermione.

Shortly after Hermione had joined the magical world, she had quickly discovered that Muggle history often overlapped with its magical contemporaries. While the end of the 18th century had heralded the Muggle French Revolution, there had also been a parallel magical uprising. As the Muggles guillotined their nobility, the wizards had essentially done the same in collectively rejecting the Pureblood aristocracy and way of life. In fact, it was during that time that the Malfoys had fled their native France to Britain.

But though her ancestors had once ruled this land, if Narcissa were discovered here, she would be incarcerated in France or returned to the English authorities.

And so they had no choice.

But where had they left to go?

Today, Hermione had single-handedly attacked two people in the woods without provocation, put innocent Muggles in life-threatening danger, caused Narcissa to be injured beyond her capacity to treat and nearly lost the woman's wand. Her guilt was festering, irrational and enormous, but there despite her logical reprimands.

Narcissa still stood there, serenely admiring the view.

"I don't know what to do," Hermione confessed to the empty air. "Nothing I've done so far has been right. I can't think of a single safe place to go." To Hermine's great dismay, she could feel the tell-tale burn of tears in her eyes and an uncomfortable lump in her throat.

"You have done very well, in my opinion," came Narcissa's soft reply. "Do not be overly harsh on yourself. There is no perfect solution for any of this, and yet you have managed to take care of us both when you owe me nothing."

Hermione frowned, the image of Narcissa's body bleeding out still haunting her. "I couldn't just leave you there."

"Yes, you could, and any lesser woman would have. Whether at the manor or today, you are never obligated to save me. You have chosen to do so, and I will never be able to convey my gratitude."

Hermione was not convinced, but nevertheless Narcissa's words had left her rather stunned. Each day together seemed to extract more unexpected candour which left Hermine's heart in confused disarray.

She couldn't help but notice that Narcissa never specified whether she was a "lesser woman" herself.

"However, I do believe I have a place to go. In England."

"Really? Where? Is it safe?"

"I asked the doctor; today is a Tuesday. I believe we should be as safe as possible."

Hermione had no idea what that meant, but she found herself holding out her arm. She didn't want to be in charge anymore. "Alright. Let's go."

Narcissa looked mildly surprised at Hermione's acquiescence, but accepted her hand. Hermione could feel the soft whisper of bandages against her wrist. They still had healing to do, still had to debrief what happened and plan ahead, but Hermione didn't think that could be done just now. They were still in shock, too afraid to look back and appreciate what they had escaped. Adrenaline kept them going, and they would not stop.

"Forgive me; I fear this may be… unpleasant."

 _Nothing could be worse than what we just went through_ , thought Hermione as apparition sucked her away.

All that remained of them in France was a pair of inexplicable footsteps in the snow.


	22. The Snake's Den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the wait. My life has picked up again (remarkably) so the updates will probably be farther apart, but this story is far from finished. Thank you for all the lovely messages you've sent me! I'm rather proud of this chapter and I can't wait for your reactions...
> 
> Trigger warnings: Mild violence, mild injury

Hermione cringed. Her foot was sinking in a patch of mud. She pulled it free with a sucking noise and looked at Narcissa who surveyed this new landscape. "Is this the right place?"

Narcissa nodded. "Yes, this is it. It has been nearly two years since I was here last, but it seems unchanged." And with that, she set off down the muddy hill, leaving Hermione no choice but to follow, eyes wearily searching for danger.

Everything just seemed so _grey_ in this place. Small, matchbox houses lined the rubbish-strewn streets. The few people out and about all maintained lowered gazes and tightly-crossed arms as they passed. Even the sky was overcast and bleak. Based on the mud she kept slipping in and the moisture creeping into her clothes, Hermione guessed it had recently rained.

Narcissa moved with conviction and Hermione wondered why she'd ever had to come here. It reeked of poverty and unhappiness. While she could not make a claim about the latter, Hermione certainly knew the former had never applied to this woman beside her.

Surprisingly, they managed to traverse the area safely and when Narcissa abruptly stopped before a door, Hermione nearly crashed into her back.

The house was utterly unremarkable to Hermione's eyes. If anything, it was even more miserable than its neighbours. The words "abandoned" and "unloved" came to mind and Hermione wondered who lived here—or who once had.

It had been impossibly long since Hermione had encountered a new place that didn't end up being a home to threats. She felt that familiar apprehension crawling around her belly, but it wasn't alone: She was curious.

Narcissa raised and murmured " _Homenum Revelio_." When the spell returned negative, she steeled herself and aimed her wand at the door handle. " _Alohomora_ ," and the door clicked open.

"I honestly did not expect that to work," remarked Narcissa with astonishment. Hermione wondered if that was meant to be a good thing.

"You never said we'd be breaking and entering," she whispered. Neither of them had yet reached for the unlocked door.

"There are supplies here. Spellbooks, potions especially. Perhaps even medical tools, which we clearly are in need of. I can think of no other option."

So this house did belong to a wizard. Or it once had. And if Narcissa had visited before, then it wasn't likely to be a person of good reputation. But no-one was here now and despite the obvious danger, Hermione was excited to interact with magic again. Perhaps she'd used up all her fear for one day.

With a surge of bravery, Hermione reached out and pushed the door open with a creak. Her heart sped up at the sight of grimy darkness within. "After you."

Narcissa gave her a rueful look and crept inside.

The first thing Hermione noticed when she followed was the dust. It invaded her lungs, thick and heavy. The second thing she noticed was that she would probably love whomever had lived here, a thought she immediately regretted upon remembering that said person had probably been a Death Eater.

The front room (which also appeared to be the only room) was tiny and worn, but the walls were stuffed to capacity with books. Beautiful leather-bound editions in earth tones evenly lined the shelves, some even stacked sideways in places where there hadn't been enough space. Entranced, Hermione drifted to a shelf and ran a hand along a particularly attractive spine. When the book didn't kill her on the spot, she pried it away and opened to a random page. A shifting diagram met her eyes, lines of ink twisting and gliding along the paper.

She turned to another page and then another. It seemed to be a history of medieval potion recipes and practices. Fascinating, but of no immediate use. Hermione tenderly closed the cover to replace it.

"Ah!" A heavy thud on the ground sounded like an earthquake in this quiet and Hermione jumped.

"What is it?!" She hurried to Narcissa's side. The woman doubled over, nursing her right hand.

"The book—must have been cursed. A repelling charm." Narcissa spoke through gritted teeth and Hermione quickly grabbed the wounded hand, gripping it around the wrist, palm facing up.

It looked like a burn. A pink blister blossomed across the fleshy middle of Narcissa's hand. "You'll be okay," Hermione told her, lying through her teeth. Who knew what spell the book had triggered? "You said we'd find potions here. We can get burn salve."

Hermione reached down to pick up the potions book she had dropped.

"Stop!"

"It's okay—this one isn't charmed." Hermione took it in her hands and flattened her palm across the cover. "See? Nothing."

Narcissa looked even more confused. "Hand it to me." She held out her burned hand and Hermione passed over the book, then immediately retracted it. The second her fingertips had brushed the cover, Narcissa's skin had reddened and peeled.

"But—that doesn't make any sense!" Hermione firmly pressed her skin against the spot Narcissa had touched, yet her own flesh remained clean and unharmed.

Narcissa seemed to be even more puzzled than Hermione. She looked around the room as though searching, whispered "What are you doing?" to the dusty books. They gave no answer.

Curiously, Hermione picked up the book which had caused Narcissa's initial injury. To Hermione, it was just as benign as any other.

"We don't need any of these," Hermione decided out loud as she replaced them on the heavy shelves. As fascinating as many of the volumes appeared, they could do without. Besides, she didn't want to risk any more curses or potential tracking charms. "Where are the potions hidden?"

Narcissa nodded and stood, pointing to an inconspicuous red-leather tome. "I won't risk it myself. Pull that one."

Hermione did as instructed and gasped when the wall came away with the book, revealing a dark landing beyond. Dusty wooden stairs led up to the left and down to the right. Both directions were dim, but the downward path seemed to swallow the light into absolute darkness.

At Narcissa's instruction, Hermione lit her wand and descended.

The wandlight revealed nothing but the dull, wooden step beneath Hermione's shoes and half of the one beyond it. She moved with almost paranoid caution, dragging her foot forwards to tease the edge of the stair before gingerly trusting it with her weight. Every horror movie she had ever seen told her that one of the steps would shatter beneath her, plunging her into the dark, or at the very least creak ominously. But these stairs were utterly silent and, Hermione suddenly noticed, clean. Whereas the rest of the home (if it could even be called that) had reeked of abandonment and carelessness, the dust on these steps had been cleaned away, polished by the regular scuffing of shoes.

Just as fear tightened its fingers around Hermione's throat, the light from her _Lumos_ fled her wand and exploded into a healthy fire in a newly-revealed hearth. Mounted candelabras erupted and cast the room into sharp relief. Narcissa's hand flew to Hermione's shoulder, nails biting her skin through her clothes.

They were alone in what appeared to be a generously equipped potions lab.

Hermione held her breath for a solid seven seconds, eyes leaping from corner to corner, waiting for something to emerge. The dark, underground atmosphere reminded her of another basement she'd visited recently basement—if the Manor's prison could even be called that—but with Narcissa pressed so firmly against her back and the feeling of a wand in her hand, it was just a little bit easier to cope.

Her cell certainly hadn't been so well furnished. Shelves boasted cauldrons of every imaginable size and shape and material, each neatly stacked and polished. Along other walls hung dried herbs of various ages, all skilfully preserved. Less savoury ingredients floated in tightly shut jars and bottles of various sizes and colours. When Hermione finally inhaled again, subtle aromas teased at her nostrils. The coppery tang of Blood Replenisher seemed most dominant, but hints of nauseating Polyjuice and other odd scents drifted about.

Narcissa released her death-grip on Hermione's shoulder and reached for Hermione's bag, helping the strap over her head. "I won't risk touching anything. Put it all in here, quickly."

It took Hermione a moment to catch up to what Narcissa had said before she ground into action. Her blood felt as though it had been replaced with pure adrenaline and she was hardly surprised to find her hand trembling as she reached up to a plain-looking pewter cauldron. When her fist wrapped around the handle and only met chilled metal, she let out a breath she didn't now she'd been holding. As gently and quietly as she felt able, she pulled the cauldron down from the shelf and pushed it into the small opening of the bag, taking care to avoid Narcissa's fingers holding it open at each end. It fell into the bag's infinite depths with a heavy _thunk_.

Narcissa and Hermione waited. One. _Heartbeat_. Two. _Heartbeat_. Three. _Heartbeat_. Four…

Nothing happened.

Hermione launched into action, dashing across the room and grabbing handfuls of jars, each neatly labelled. Polyjuice Potion. Essence of Dittany. Veritaserum. Blood Replenisher. She tossed them all into the bag, Narcissa following beside her and holding the lip of the bag wide open to admit all sorts of resources they'd only dreamed of until now.

"Dreamless Sleep—get that, too." Hermione obeyed and dropped it in. She tried to rearrange the bottles on the shelf to cover up the gaps left by her theft, but the clinking noise of glass on glass frightened her, made her feel like someone will find them at any second, so she abandoned that endeavour and scurried over to a different table to grab a leather sleeve housing various knives and stirring rods.

A few cauldrons for brewing—standard ingredients—beetle eyes, dried lavender, squid ink—lacewing flies and Boomslang skin for Polyjuice—a bezoar just for good measure—and that—?

 _Yes_. Hermione's throat seized as she wrapped her fingers around the tiny phial of molten gold. Felix Felicis. It felt warm against Hermione's fist, almost like it had its own pulse and was trying to share its joy with her.

She cradled it as she lay it gently among the other jars and bottles. Seeing it glittering in the candlelight made Hermione want to laugh and when her eyes found Narcissa's, they both smiled. Hermione noticed the gentle crinkling of skin around Narcissa's blue eyes and startled herself with the realisation that she liked it. It was endearing. Hermione wished they could be there more often, those happy creases.

Hermione hadn't paid attention when they'd opened the door. The threat of an unknown environment and Narcissa's odd reaction to the books had sucked Hermione's concentration away from more trivial things. But the muffled creak sounded plenty loud to Hermione now and her gaze flew to the stairs they had descended. Reflexively, her cold fingers seized Narcissa's wrist and she held her breath. A plump shadow materialised in the flickering darkness beyond the reach of the candlelight.

A shuffling noise. Narcissa remained unmoving and pressed her lips together, not even daring to breathe. Their eyes locked and Hermione felt oddly calm. Fear had become her default; it no longer unnerved her. At least not at first.

If they moved, the sound would give away their presence, but Hermione couldn't imagine a possible scenario where the third person in this room wasn't an enemy.

Hermione watched over Narcissa's shoulder as they slowly moved down the stairs. It only took a few seconds before they reached the stone floor, but in those moments Hermione had exhausted an infinite number of possibilities and decided to just go with whatever instinct came to mind. She was tired. Any plan was bound to go wrong and just cause more anxiety. It didn't matter.

Her only thought as candlelight outlined the stranger's face was, _What an idiot. He should have come down as a rat. Much more discreet_.

Pettigrew swept his eyes across the room before landing on Narcissa's back and Hermione staring at him over Narcissa's left shoulder. Her gaze was intense and unwavering and she caught the shock that registered on his face before his mouth carved out a rather grotesque smile.

He pulled back his shoulders, as though trying to be intimidating and Hermione squeezed Narcissa's wrist, either in comfort or warning. She hadn't decided which yet.

Pettigrew opened his mouth and a fraction of a syllable escaped before Hermione's " _Stupefy_!" hit him square in the chest. He crumpled backwards, landing in a lump of ratty hair and ill-fitting robes. Hermione saw his silver hand twitch and clench before finally stilling with the rest of his body.

When Narcissa spun around, the bag clunked in her hand. " _Him_!" She gaped, her mouth twisting into various expressions of shock and fear before she turned to Hermione. "Forgive me," she whispered and Hermione was struck by how truly frightened she sounded. Her voice trembled and wavered and stuttered with an emotion Hermione had never heard, not even when they thought they would die at the Manor. "I should have known. He was h-here last time. I should not have brought you. I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry, Hermione."

Hermione's heart beat unevenly and she accepted the apology with a nod. It was unnecessary, she thought. Narcissa had made a mistake. Hermione should have been angry or afraid, but instead all she felt was a mild impatience to deal with the business at hand.

"We need to move him."

"What?"

"We can't make it look like someone was here. It has to look like an accident." Hermione strode nearer to Pettigrew, wand cautiously aimed at his form as she thought. "If we shift him over there, it will look like he fell down the stairs."

"No—maybe there's a spell similar to the books…"

Hermione turned around, confused, and found Narcissa squinting up at the shelf of cauldrons. Before Hermione could protest, she had reached up an arm and hissed as it burned her fingertip. Hermione rushed over, but Narcissa spoke first, impatient and excited. "Move his body to the centre of the room. If we cover him with cauldrons and bottles, it will appear he tried to steal and was injured by the repelling charm."

Hermione considered this a moment, imagined what it would look like to come downstairs and find Pettigrew unconscious and surrounded by cauldrons and smashed glass with blisters on his skin and potions seeping into his clothes.

" _Accio_ Pettigrew." His body skidded along the ground to her feet and she rather smugly hoped it left some bruises.

Narcissa watched as Hermione took a small bronze cauldron from the shelf and placed it against Pettigrew's hand. His skin blistered at the contact, peeling into a hot burn.

They rushed into action, Hermione grabbing one of everything her hands can find and depositing it on and around Pettigrew's body in a chaotic mess. Narcissa stood out of her way, then changed her mind and peeled her jacket from her shoulders. With cautious movements, she used the material like an oven mitt and lifted a jar of frog spleens from a shelf. When the repelling charm didn't scald her fingertips, she marched over and released the jar near Pettigrew's head. The thing landed near his ear, smashing spectacularly and causing the small preserved organs to rupture against the floor.

They ransacked the place. Phials of viscous potions bled out against the stones; cauldrons and empty bottles and knives clattered to the ground. Hermione felt like a manic composer orchestrating a symphony of chaotic destruction echoing throughout the small basement to the beat of her frantic breathing. Narcissa partook with near equal fervour, grunting fiercely as she used the bunched material of her jacket to swat items off shelves and benches and onto the unresponsive body. Hermione was grateful Pettigrew had chosen to wear such large robes; she didn't think she could stomach the sight of the bruises and burns blossoming on his skin. A small part of her wondered if this might actually kill him, but that voice became quieter and quieter as she hurled a jar of pickled chameleon eyes onto his elbow. She must have hit the funny bone because his arm jumped strangely at the impact.

It was only as she paused to catch her breath, a wild look in her wide eyes, that she noticed the steady movement in her periphery. It seemed just cruel now that fate would use the same trope twice in less than three minutes, and as Hermione watched the form comfortably descend the stairs, she felt quite certain of two things: She was an idiot and she was going to die.

It was truly remarkable, she thought, how oblivious she'd been. Had she not spent years in a potions lab very similar to this one? Was she not well aware of the Death Eaters' primary members?

By the time Narcissa realised that they had been interrupted yet again, Snape was already standing at the foot of the stairs and surveying the room, the scene being swallowed by the seemingly infinite depths of his pupils.

"Well, well" he drawled gravely, his voice flooding the room like a rich oil; smooth, heavy, slick and clinging to everything. "It would seem that someone has taken it upon themselves to burgle my private laboratory."

His voice struck Hermione with an intense vertigo. Ever since the events last year, her perception of Severus Snape had been cleaved neatly in two: There was the sneering Potions professor who had plagued her studenthood, and there was the murderer, the terrorist, the creature so inhuman in its evil. Now, with him casually standing there (well, as casually as Severus Snape could ever accomplish) in his customary black robes and the fumes of potions ingredients hanging in the air, these two halves suddenly crashed together with a deafening _CLANG_!

Only Hermione couldn't get them to line up. Every memory of him at Hogwarts, tall and dark and intimidating, now had the scent of death superimposed on top. Teaching classes, herding children, severing George's ear, surveying meals, kissing the hem of the Dark Lord's robes, prowling through corridors, assassinating Dumbledore... Somehow, these were all the same man.

He made her sick.

Hermione swallowed and felt her gullet clench. Rage and fear swelled through her blood, a tide of paralysing emotion that left her nauseated and frozen.

"I'm sure I shall be most unhappy when I discover this mess."

Snape's voice quested even lower, pensive and deceptively flippant and Hermione wished she could bring herself to move her eyes away from the impossibility of his presence. She wanted to look at Narcissa, to not be alone in the knowledge of her imminent death.

"What a pity it is, then, that I shall never discover the culprit."

Snape raised his eyebrows in the facial equivalent of a shrug and coolly turned, boots evenly scraping the ground as he made his way back up the stairs and disappeared from sight.


	23. Fracture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this might be the longest break between chapters yet and the next one isn't actually finished at the moment, but I'm breaking one of my own rules to post this now because I can't stand the gap either. Happy 2017!
> 
> Heads up that the this and the next chapter both get a little psychological and dark.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Dissociation, mild injury description

Hermione did not spring back into action or suddenly return to reality with the clicking sound of Snape shutting the door. It was Narcissa that did that, grabbing Hermione’s elbow with a trembling hand and tugging her towards the stairs. From very far away, Hermione could hear Narcissa’s sputtering, a verbal personification of fear that Hermione had yet to process. She stumbled along dumbly as Narcissa pulled her up the stairs, gingerly pushing open the door and scurrying through the musty sitting room and out the front door.

Despite being outside, the air didn’t feel fresh or cleansing.

Narcissa seemed like she was about to burst into tears, either of relief or terror or both. Her grip on Hermione didn’t waver despite the fact that it no doubt irritated the fresh burns on her hands.

Hermione watched all this from somewhere deep in her body where she lay utterly trapped. She wanted to tell Narcissa to let go. To stop frantically searching the street for threats and just let Hermione take care of it. Narcissa was hurt, after all. It was Hermione’s job to do all this.  If she could just climb out of this deep chasm and retake control of her limbs, she would tell Narcissa to stop and she would promise it would be okay. And take them away. Somewhere safe…

“This way.” Narcissa pulled Hermione down the street, past more crippling houses and then into a narrow alleyway where the last of the dim grey light was swallowed by shadow. Hermione vaguely registered the smell of urine but Narcissa seemed utterly oblivious to it all as she spun around. Her eyes were impossibly wide and Hermione wondered if she would cry.

Narcissa’s hands came up to cup Hermione’s jaw. Hermione flinched at the sudden contact, the cold sweat on Narcissa’s skin shocking her nerves, but Narcissa held firm.

“I’m sorry,” she choked. Her lip trembled and Hermione remarked that she had never seen Narcissa in a state like this, not even when they’d nearly lost their lives fleeing the manor. “I thought it would be safe—he was supposed to be at the school, as headmaster—I’m sorry, please I’m so sorry—a-are you alright? Please, I am so sorry if you w-were harmed, somehow. I didn’t know, I give you my word, I didn’t know he would be there. Is—is there anywhere you would like to go now? I believe I know somewhere—another wood, but I understand if you—if you would not—"

Hermione’s brain had only room for one thought. And at the moment she was too fixated on the fact that Narcissa was stuttering to even begin to comprehend what she actually said. Hermione wished she could talk. She needed to tell Narcissa that it was okay, it was all Hermione’s fault anyway, and that she would find some way out of it.

But she couldn’t. Hermione’s body remained out of her control, frozen in Narcissa’s grip. Hermione wasn’t sure whether she wanted to pull away in fear or lean closer in safety.

Somehow, she jerked her head in an approximation of a nod. They needed to get away. Narcissa had a place in mind. That was better than being here. Hermione could think that much.

Narcissa echoed Hermione's nod as though repeating it herself would help her understand. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes... I'll take you. Alright. Hold tight."

Hermione didn't think she could move the muscles in her hands, but it proved unnecessary as Narcissa crushed her fingers in a trembling grip. Hermione stared blankly as Narcissa seemed to draw strength from the act. She fingered her wand in her other hand, took a steadying breath, twisted, and then Hermione was dragged into the void of apparition.

When it spat her back out again, Hermione lost her balance and collapsed onto the ground. Damp grass broke her fall and Hermione stayed there, letting the cool moisture seep through her clothes and ease the sudden bout of nausea. Her body felt _wrong_ , and it wasn't because of the apparating. Everything felt too heavy, too difficult; lights were too bright, sounds didn't make sense...

Hermione closed her eyes.

When she felt Narcissa kneel beside her, she didn't open them. Hands crept across her brow, brushed her arm, and she frowned.

"Are you alright?" Narcissa's voice was impossibly quiet and yet it felt like a blow to the inside of Hermione's skull. She wished she had an answer to the question. There was no physical injury, but it felt like her mind was being swallowed into nothingness.

There had been times, of course, when Hermione had been afraid. Fear wasn't even a strong enough word to describe some of the emotions she'd experienced while being chased by a werewolf or feeling a Death Eater's wand probe her throat. The poison of terror was no stranger to Hermione. Yet while they had been both enemies and comrades, they had never been unequals.

This was not the case now. This was unlike any fear Hermione had ever known; an entirely different kind of beast which stood immovable in her gut and roared over any feeble attempt to challenge it. It had metastasized through her blood, planted itself deep into her tissues and tainted every cell in her body.

And the fear itself was nothing compared to how this paralysis made Hermione feel.

She was a Gryffindor, the noisy Muggle-born with a cloud of frizzy hair, the one whose incessant chatter drove everyone mad and whose passionate charity left no one untouched. _This_ was not her; not the wounded creature lying in the dirt, eyes wide, too shaken to speak. She was supposed to be better than this, and yet she was not.

The self-loathing which bloomed somewhere near her stomach began to seep through her veins, and Hermione focused on it, let it be her mooring in the empty fog through which she drifted. She twitched, shifted, and slowly pulled herself up to a sitting position. If she was truly as terrible as she believed, then she did not deserve to lie about on the floor. Her leg cramped and she revelled in it, pushing herself to her feet and feeling a tiny leap of satisfaction when the discomfort intensified.

Narcissa stood, back to Hermione, a few metres away. She seemed to be executing the protective wards. Or trying to, at least. Hermione could see the way she struggled to hold her wand in her burned hands, trying to avoid aggravating the blistered skin.

Hermione took slow, steady steps towards the other woman, and it felt as though the universe were pushing her backwards, making her fight for each stride.

"Here, I'll do it."

Narcissa jumped at the noise and her wand slipped from her loose grip. When she whirled around and saw Hermione standing there, she did the last thing Hermione anticipated: she pulled her into a hug.

"You scared me,” she gasped. “I thought you had fallen unconscious.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione mumbled into Narcissa’s shoulder. Blonde hairs tickled her nose. Hermione didn’t move them. After a moment, she settled deeper in to the embrace and felt Narcissa’s grip tighten around her sides. The pressure helped to push the pieces of herself back together, gently sliding her soul, her mind, her heart back to their approximate positions.

They held there a moment, sharing heartbeats and adrenaline. It seemed to Hermione that they had been doing this a lot, this post-traumatic scrambling for one another, but before it had been because the other was the only possible source of safety. Now, they felt a very specific _need_. Hermione did not find comfort in Narcissa’s arms because they belonged to another warm human body, but because they were _Narcissa’s_.

Slowly, tenderly, Narcissa pulled away and her hands drifted from Hermione’s sides to her temples, brushing the mussed hair from her eyes. Gentle tingles bloomed across the skin there, but Hermione pulled Narcissa’s hands down by the wrist.

“Let me fix your hands,” she murmured, pulling Narcissa to sit on a large boulder. Damp moss felt cold even through the denim covering Hermione’s thighs. Trying to focus on the present and be gentle on the burns, Hermione placed Narcissa’s hands palms-up on her leg. The fingers struggled to unfurl and Hermione sensed Narcissa’s breathing turn shallow at the pain.

Hermione’s lethargic brain laboured to remember the necessary incantations. She reached for the bag on her hip and slowly began to dig through for the burn paste she knew they had stolen.

“Where are we?” she asked as her fingers probed through jars and bottles. If she didn’t make conversation, tie her mind down to the present, she feared she may drift away forever.

“Ireland.” Hermione’s eyebrows rose a fraction as she extracted a jar from the bag. Narcissa went on, “I came here once. As a child. There’s a property nearby…”

Hermione unscrewed the lid and wrinkled her nose at the strong citrussy odour.

“No-one has been here in many years. And as we’re on a different island, I believe we should be relatively safer.”

Hermione nodded.

Neither woman spoke as Hermione scooped some of the bright paste onto her fingers and gently massaged it into the burnt flesh of Narcissa’s palm. Hermione could hear Narcissa force her breathing to remain steady as the potion went to work, seeping into her skin and easing the pain. The repetitive motions of Hermione’s fingers were hypnotising and soothing… round and around…

When she had finished, Hermione replaced the jar in her bag and dragged her hand across the rock to wipe off the sticky excess.

“Thank you,” Narcissa whispered and Hermione nodded.

Everything in the forest looked so _green_. Moss, leaves, grasses. An impossibly rich shade of emerald with accents of warm bark. The homogeneity of it all felt safe; nothing was overly complicated or unexpected. Just trees and dirt and green.

Hermione’s eyelids grew heavier. Perhaps sleep was actually a good idea, especially when her mind was so blissfully empty. Rambling thoughts would not keep her awake tonight—all anxiety had been thoroughly wrung out and replaced with indifference.

But to sleep, she needed a bed.

Hermione opened the bag again and slowly brought out their shelter, piece by piece, until it sat in a heap on the ground. Without words, they began to assemble their adopted home.

As they were in the process of securing the fabric panels of the tent, Narcissa said, “I believe I have a theory about—about the owl. If you would like to hear it.”

“Alright.” Hermione’s hand slipped and she tried again to position the slim pole in an elastic loop.

“Are you familiar with the concept of inherited Anigmaus?”

Hermione frowned. “No.”

“I’m not surprised. It isn’t a concept taught at Hogwarts. There are some cases where, if a child has one or both Animagi parents, they inherit some exceptional magical abilities. I am not terribly familiar with the theory, but I believe that could be why our wards were affected.” Narcissa pushed hair out of her eyes and stood from where she had been applying a sticking charm to the underside of the tent. “At Hogwarts, you were only taught the theory of Animagus magic. At some other schools, notably Durmstrang, students are not only taught the philosophy, but the practice. The Ministry banned it from Hogwarts curriculum decades ago after some... unsavoury incidents. The Bulgarian government doesn’t require Animagus wizards to register, either.”

Hermione felt mildly indignant to learn that her education had been censored in this way, but more so she felt like an idiot not to have figured it out herself. Krum had displayed rather extraordinary human transfiguration skills during the Second Task, after all. And their attacker had a distinctly Eastern-European accent…

“I think you’re right.”

Narcissa’s lips quirked in what might have been half a smile and they got back to work.

~*~

It was strange: Their slapdash little tent and its mismatched interior did feel like home. Standing inside it made Hermione feel a few degrees safer and Narcissa seemed to be a good deal more relaxed. She was making tea again.

Hermione slipped outside the tent.

The cool, misty air made her shiver and her eyes kept fluttering shut, but she had to try.

Those weeks she had been rotting in that dungeon cell, Hermione’s focal point had been a Patronus. If she could cast a Patronus and send it to the Order, they could find each other. They just had to know she was alive.

Then she had escaped and the opportunity had been there, but with Narcissa at her side it seemed too dangerous. Now, Hermione was pretty sure Narcissa wasn’t going anywhere soon, and Hermione didn’t want her too.

She had been free a week at least. She had been casting spells; today she had apparated and obliviated and duelled three men. There was no reason her magic shouldn’t be able to produce a Patronus.

Hermione let her eyes shut, wriggled her fingers around her wand, and breathed. Her feet settled into the soft ground.

Magic. Hogwarts. Harry. Ron. Belonging. Pride.

 _Inhale. Exhale_.

The smell of burning homework in the Gryffindor common room. The sweetness of pumpkin juice in the mornings.

 _Inhale. Exhale_.

New spells. Old quills. Ink dribbling down parchment.

Hermione’s arm slowly ascended until it was perpendicular to her torso.

Laughter. Friendship. Love.

Her eyes burned and her lips wrestled each other into a wretched smile.

“ _Expecto patronum._ ” Magic slithered through her arm, grazing her flesh and teasing the bones in her wrist. Nothing emerged from the tip of her wand, not even the faintest mist.

Hermione swallowed, closed her eyes, pictured her otter soaring through the air. Waking up in the cosy familiarity of the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley’s holiday feasts. Stepping on one another’s toes under an invisibility cloak too small to comfortably conceal three teenagers. Ron. Harry.

“ _Expecto patronum!_ ”

She pushed; she crammed happiness into every crevice of her being and shoved magic through her fingertips.

And once again, the only sign she had attempted a spell at all was the echo of her incantation.

Hermione’s arm faltered and fell back to her side. The warmth from the memories faded rapidly, leaving her hollow. _It’s okay_ , she told herself. _Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t mean anything_.

She’d had a feeling that it would take some time before she felt herself again after escaping. That was partly why she’d waited until now to attempt a Patronus—to save herself the inevitable disappointment of failure. But she was _Hermione Granger_ and exceptional feats of magic were meant to be her forte.

Defeated, she turned and ducked back into the tent. Narcissa gave her a look which suggested she hadn’t even noticed Hermione leave as she rearranged some pillows.

 _Pillows_. How could Narcissa possibly muster the energy—or inclination—to fluff pillows right now? Hermione’s inner monologue grumbled to itself as she slumped over to her customary space on the rug in front of the hearth. Narcissa seemed to understand her intent and passed her some cushions and the asymmetrical blanket.

Hermione assembled a nest for herself and coiled her body into a tight ball. As soon as her eyes closed, reality seemed to dissolve and she fell deeply asleep.

~*~

She dragged herself halfway into consciousness some time later, trembling and whimpering and desperate to hide from the images parading through her head, thrusting themselves before her mind’s eye despite all her attempts to shield herself. When the hands first touched her, she flinched and sobbed, but then they drew her close, wrapped her in warmth and protection, and she stilled. It was strange that being held did not feel restrictive, but rather dimmed the nightmares a little as she drifted away once again.


	24. Shatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? I told you this story wasn't abandoned! I didn't realise it's been over 7 months since I updated and I'm truly sorry for the excruciating wait. I put an explanation at the end, if you're interested. Otherwise, read on, and please heed the trigger warnings for this chapter as it is rather intense.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Dissociation, mild self-harm, suicidal ideation, self-loathing, flashbacks, torture, sexual assault, suicidal intent

It took a while for Hermione to realise she was awake again. Consciousness didn’t feel terribly different from unconsciousness, after all. She kept her eyes closed and hoped that she would fall back asleep soon. Sentience was just too tedious.

But trying to fall asleep only seemed to wake her more and she slowly became aware of pestering sensations. Her legs lay curled beside each other. The soft fabric of her clothes lingered against her skin; the blankets and pillows around her all gently pushed and pulled at her body. Noises wandered by.

It was too much.

She wanted everything to _stop_. Like an itch just out of reach, there was a deep sense of discomfort crawling under her skin. Nothing was right. She didn’t even want it to be. She just wanted nothingness.

She sensed Narcissa move near and crouch beside her head. Hermione’s body went into overdrive, begging her to stand up and not waste all this energy streaming through her blood. Hermione refused, stubbornly keeping her eyes shut and trying to force herself back to sleep even as Narcissa’s fingers began softly probing through her hair.

“Hermione.”

Her voice was so soft that Hermione couldn’t understand how it sent adrenaline pulsing through her limbs instead of easing her back to unconsciousness.

“Are you unwell? You’ve been asleep for nearly fifteen hours.”

Hermione wondered how much of that had been actual sleep.

She gave in and made a soft sound of acknowledgement to prove she was awake. Narcissa’s relief was immediately apparent and Hermione suddenly found arms firmly wrapped around her shoulders, hoisting her into a sitting position.

She wished Narcissa would just leave her be.

“Are you ill? Come and eat a little.”

“No,” Hermione squirmed out of Narcissa’s grasp and curled up on the pillows again. “I’m not hungry. I want to sleep.” But she had never been more awake in her life and it irritated her to no end.

Narcissa reached a hand toward Hermione’s forehead as though to test her temperature and Hermione swatted it away. Without looking, Hermione knew Narcissa was shocked and at least a little bit offended. _Good_. The terrible, bitter voice in Hermione’s head hoped that that would keep the woman away and leave her to rot in her misery.

“Are you sure you aren’t unwell? Let me—“

A slight stinging on her head—behind Hermione’s left ear—and suddenly her heart launched into her throat and all hell broke loose within her nerve endings.

Every possible emotion rode wildly through her bloodstream, a hurricane which tore apart each vein and was surely trying to claw its way out of her body.

She screamed and the feeling of it tearing through her larynx only invited a new onslaught of whirling images and sensations.

There was hair pulling—not like the bullying from boys at her primary school, but a kind of primal ripping through her head—she thought there was blood—it _burned_ —

But that wasn’t as bad as the other things, the ugly voices around her which cackled and screeched and the coolness of _that_ blade twirling lightly along her skin, mocking the blood vessels pulsing frantically beneath and all the other invisible monsters which mischievously snaked around her neck, covered her eyes, lingering there just long enough to let her hope for reprieve before beginning their assault and they burned, too—

Hermione didn’t know how long the pain continued for, couldn’t measure it if she tried. Eventually, it passed, kind of, and she vaguely knew that her surroundings were unchanged and that Narcissa was sitting by her head and looking at her with the most fearful concern Hermione had seen.

“Hermione?” she murmured and Hermione’s gaze crept up to meet Narcissa’s. “M-my apologies. I think I pulled your hair a little—accidentally—when I moved.” Her voice was so soft, like she feared that loud noises might make Hermione transform back into that shrieking, cowering thing. “What is wrong? Have you been cursed?”

Hermione paused, then shook her head. Tried to focus on breathing. It was hard. Her legs, she noticed, felt almost as if they were buzzing.

She sat up so quickly that her head nearly collided with Narcissa’s. She needed space, air, room, something that was not _this_.

Her legs wobbled when she tried to stand on them so she allowed Narcissa’s help, trying her hardest to ignore the way flesh on her flesh felt like a burn and amplified the memories (could such awful things truly be memories and not nightmares?) echoing in her head.

Reality took on that curious haziness again. Rationally, she knew it was there, this was real, but it felt utterly intangible.

And perhaps most strangely of all was the constant… nothingness.

She had been flooded with sadness before. Happiness, too. Had been nearly suffocated with fear and utterly saturated with anxiety.

Now, she drowned in nothing. It was the purest form of apathy Hermione could imagine. Just _empty_.

She sat on a chair now and Narcissa brewed her a cup of tea. The rough texture of the canvas seat aggravated her hands and pressed against the backs of her legs and somehow it was too much again; it invaded the hollow space in her head and Hermione wanted it to stop.

A cup. It took Hermione a moment to remember to reach for it and when it seared her fingertips she didn’t even flinch. The pain stung, pried at her skin, but Hermione revelled in it. It was neat and precise, not like the vague laziness of other sensations. As long as her hand burned, she felt real, connected to the world.

She drank and let the boiling tea flow over her tongue until its surface felt rough and tasteless, the buds all burnt.

“Are you sure you’re well?” Narcissa took the cup away when Hermione finished and she frowned, feeling herself drift away again. She made fists in her lap and pressed her nails as hard as she could into the palm of her hand and sighed contentedly at the sting it brought. She remembered she had done this when they first apparated away from the manor and wondered why she had stopped. Perhaps she wouldn’t have deteriorated this far if she’d had that constant bite to keep her steady, to focus on through all the haze.

Hermione tried to eat the bread Narcissa handed her but it took so much energy to move her mouth, the freshly burned flesh of her tongue hesitant to flex, and she really wasn’t hungry. The feel of the dough in her hand as she tugged it apart was exactly like the dozens of times she’d teased her food in her cell and suddenly it was all too much again and she just stood up and went outside.

The cold on her bottom as she sat on the ground was a different kind of pain, the kind that was just uncomfortable enough to make her aware of her body and that was worse, so much worse. When Narcissa quickly followed her outside with a blanket, Hermione didn’t want to so much as breathe because then she would have to feel her torso expand and that was hell because she vividly remembered every spot, every rib, every tendon that had been kicked and bruised and broken and healed and then broken again under expensive black boots and abrasive shouts of triumph.

Hermione didn’t breathe and part of her hoped that maybe she would pass out and she wouldn’t have to deal with the chore of being conscious. But then Narcissa was asking her if she was alright again and Hermione couldn’t very well faint without complicating the matter so she inhaled and felt her vision grow cloudy as the memories rolled in.

“I’m fine, I’m sorry, I promise. I just—need some space, I think. And rest. I’ll be better soon.” Hermione could barely hear her own voice.

Narcissa seemed satisfied, though, and a minute later she brought Hermine the radio and notebook with a little encouraging smile. Hermione mimicked it to the best of her ability and tried not to startle when Narcissa stroked her temple.

Then Hermione sat alone again.

She reminded herself to keep breathing and didn’t dare move, even when her leg began to feel numb, even when she got an itch on her cheek. Her breaths grew became shallow until the rise and fall of her chest was barely visible yet while her body grew stiller, her mind accelerated, the magnitude of broken thoughts swelling and cresting and then violently tearing each other apart, flinging themselves across her skull.

She’d never be able to look at a galleon again. Not after they’d carefully squeezed that information out of her, strategically offering it as a relatively harmless key to conclude a brutal casting of Cruciatus.

Voices crawled into her ear, unbidden and incongruent with the serenity of the forest. 

“Fifth year—Dumbledore’s Army. How did you do it? How did you worm around under the ministry’s nose?” It had seemed like such a simple question, and it couldn’t hurt anyone now. That had been years ago. It didn’t matter anymore.

Being able to breathe mattered, even if she was lying in her own urine in a dungeon.

“Gal- _galleons_ ,” she had gasped, somehow, as her jaw trembled violently and she wondered if it was possible to go into cardiac arrest at the age of eighteen.

And it had stopped. The wands lowered. Someone might have even cast a charitable _Scourgify_ on her soiled clothes.

“Yes, that’s it…” It was like cooing to a child, coaxing them into admitting a wrongdoing. “What do you mean by ‘galleons?’ Did you bribe someone?”

Hermione couldn’t remember whose voice had interrogated her. It wasn’t a Death Eater commonly known to the public, she suspected. Perhaps because they were so efficient at information extraction and interrogation that they were better kept tending to prisoners rather than participating in raids and attacks.

It was a rather useless flash of logic.

“Protean Charm.”

Her voice sounded foreign in her mouth and she still couldn’t see anything but inky darkness. She assumed her captors could, though, because they knew exactly where her ear was when they brought their lips to it and murmured, “And you cast that spell on your own, did you? Only a fifth year? Such a clever girl…”

They didn’t really think that, of course. They thought she was no better than a slave, undeserving of magic or praise. But it was so _tempting_. They had done their research well; they knew validation was her weakness. Approval. And they were giving it to her, false though it may be, and after so much fear and pain, the slight glimmer of praise eased the shame which accompanied confession.

Now, the sweetness had faded and the bitter aftertaste made Hermione want to retch. She utterly disgusted herself and almost wished she had eaten enough to vomit. The burn in her gullet would be an inadequate punishment but it would be something, at least…

Her nails sank into the flesh of her palm and the stinging felt like a singing beacon she could tune into.

They had left her then, after extracting that first admission. She was pretty sure she’d blacked out before they even departed her cell. It hadn’t taken long for the passing of time to shift, warp itself into a wholly different unit of measurement. Rather than the metric evenness of seconds, minutes, hours; Hermione’s existence functioned as a matter of flickers of sleep; expansive, twisting, infinite tunnels of agony and fear which snapped back into brief flashes of jagged memory as soon as she lay alone on the damp stone again. A month she had been there, sealed away in cool darkness, but she could not even hope to guess at how many hours of each day she had spent asleep, or awake, or in the in-between state which made up interrogations.

And now it was done, somehow. Never again would she endure what she had. Surely if they captured her again, they wouldn’t bother to keep her alive for a second round. She’d nothing left to make her existence worth their while. Her death, on the other hand, was plenty rich.

She imagined that her psyche had provided a puzzle for those among her captors who bothered themselves with such things. What were the curses, the taunts that would make her break?

They had been fond of humiliation. They thought it suited her, the prideful girl who dared to flaunt her stolen magic, dared to even populate a world she did not deserve. Hermione had grown used to years of jeers and insults, though, and it was easy to tune out their voices. She would rather listen to hours of their sneers than be at the receiving end of a malicious wand.

Perhaps her mistake lay there. Had she let them believe their words inflicted as much pain as their bruises, she could have spared herself the rest of it. Instead, she had proudly broadcast her indifference, rolled her eyes as they spat slurs into her face.

 _Idiot, stupid_ … Hermione pinched the flesh of her cheek between her incisors and screamed at herself. Why had she not seen it? What kind of self-proclaimed brilliant girl could not see the most obvious strategy? She had clung to her pride, instead, as though it was as effective a weapon as the knives they wielded. Her pride was worthless, and now everything else was, too.

They had taken her challenge with greed. Cruciatus made her scream, but what would make her talk?

They had tried physical humiliation instead. They had taken a liking to the Imperius, especially. It was hard to sit there and glare at her tormentors with cool disdain after they had seized her dignity, the twirls of their wands bending her like strings of a marionette. Despite all her stubborn defiance, she’d never been terribly good at fighting off that particular Unforgivable, and it had been so nice to be snatched away by that serene cloud of obedience. _Yes, of course I’ll stand up… Everything is right, is good… I’ll walk over here… Sink to my knees... Undo your trousers…_

They had released her suddenly and she found herself choking on hot flesh. She had tried to pull away and was kicked onto the floor, still spluttering, laughter beating her ears. Hadn’t moved. Stayed there, curled up with her eyes wide and saliva she refused to swallow dribbling over her lips.

Perhaps this had excited them, made them hope they’d finally gotten to her. Hermione couldn’t remember anything outside the hyperawareness of her own mouth, the way her jaw had ached a little and her tongue had twitched. Rather than pull her secrets out, the degradation only forced her into the deepest part of herself.

So then they had moved on, apparently convinced that their more brutal repertoire wouldn’t destroy her beyond her capacity for usefulness.

While it was true she didn’t have much sense of time, it didn’t seem like it had taken much longer for them to work that first confession from her. After that, the rest came so much easier. When they wanted information, they tortured her with finesse, learned what spells and strikes made her beg for it to end and what shut her down into silence. Like fight or flight, Hermione had developed a new self-preservation reflex: tell them what they want. Almost as effective as the Imperius.

Towards the end, their treatment of her had lost its strategy. It became recreation, and she saw more and more of Lestrange than she did her interrogators. She had exhausted her usefulness.

Because she had told them _everything_. Members of the Order. How they had broken into the Ministry. She had even tried, desperately, to reveal the location of Grimmauld Place and they had only stopped this line of questioning when it became apparent that no amount of threatening would stop her tongue from rolling in on itself as she tried to iterate the address.

The only reason she hadn’t told them about Horcruxes was because they hadn’t thought to ask.

They didn’t bother to tell her how they used the information she provided, or whether any of it had truly been news to them at all. Surely they already had a sense of who was loyal to the Order, and recounting how they’d escaped Death Eaters on the run was hardly useful after the fact.

Still, this didn’t ease the disgust and shame Hermione felt for herself. She had ratted out her friends and their secrets, had done so with eagerness. She ought not even return to them. They were better off without her.

It had begun to rain. Droplets landed on Hermione’s hands and face like blades of ice. She felt it seep through her pores and saturate her bones, freezing her from her marrow outwards.

How long would it take for that freezing to become irreversible? Once hypothermia struck, death could come within minutes. But it wasn’t cold or wet enough, at least not yet. She would have to stay awhile longer…

In her fourth year, when the Unforgivables had been performed without shame for their supposed education, Hermione had resisted the slight nausea and bravely asked whether the Killing Curse could be used on oneself. In theory, the answer was yes, but there had never been a proven instance of a wizard successfully doing so. The amount of will it would take to turn one’s own magic against oneself in such a manner was staggering, of quite literally mythical proportions.

She had not slept well after completing that research. The information had receded back into her mind, but now it slithered forth, pressing her wand more firmly against her thigh as it lay restless beside her. So near to her hand.

They said it was painless.

She had seen it, even. Sirius had seemed merely taken aback when the spell met him. In an instant, he was gone. Nudged quietly out of existence. Done. No more.

She did not deserve something so easy.

A rustling behind her, and Hermione desperately wished for Narcissa to stay away, to leave her to her self-destruction.

She had no such luck.

“Hermione?”

Her eyes remained blankly staring at the ground ahead of her. Rain pooled in the crevices of rocks and branches.

“Hermione, come inside, you’ll catch cold.”

 _Good_.

A hand crept over Hermione’s shoulder and she tried to will it away.

“Hermione, speak to me.”

She made an unintelligible whine and squirmed away from her touch, firmly overruling the small fraction of herself which wanted desperately to crawl into Narcissa’s arms.

Hermione could sense the woman’s frustration growing by the second, and her own panic mounted at the thought of how she might respond.

“You’re soaked through. It’s warm inside.”

Hermione’s lips pressed together.

“Don’t be foolish—you’ll die out here!”

“Good!”

The silence that followed Hermione’s shout was not the soothing blankness of before but rather a ferocious vacuum that she longed to fill with some sort of justification, but she had none to offer. In her mind, she could see Narcissa’s eyes widening in shock, narrowing in anger, or perhaps worst of all, rolling in exasperated dismissal.

She had no way to measure the woman’s true reaction until she spoke, completely neutral: “You don’t mean that.”

Immediately, Hermione bristled in response. How _dare_ anyone tell her how to feel?

She squirmed away from Narcissa’s hand when it reached out to offer comfort. It made her want to snatch up her wand and do the deed right then, just to prove that she could.

Her hand crept forwards to where her wand lay, testing her resolve, but froze when her fingers met empty air. Her eyes slowly followed, carefully looking only at the ground. She saw a pale hand a few inches away from her own, the wand she sought loosely held in long fingers.

Without explanation, Hermione felt tears flood her eyes.

“Give me my wand.” Her voice sounded pathetic and hoarse and she hated it, hated herself so much.

“I cannot do that, not if you will try to use it to harm yourself.”

Hermione inhaled, preparing to demand her wand back, but she couldn’t find the energy. Deep down, she knew Narcissa was right, and her own pitiful voice echoed through her head, _Can’t even have a wand… so worthless… they’re right, you don’t deserve anything, none of it…_

“Come now; come inside.” Narcissa stood and reached down to help Hermione to her feet. With every gentle word and touch, Hermione felt herself inching closer to whatever spectacular self-destruction awaited her. She almost wished Narcissa would fight her instead; anger would be preferable to this unbearable, fracturing grief.

Fingers wrapped around Hermione’s upper arms. “Up you get.”

“No…”

“You can do it. We need to get you out of the cold.”

Hermione was shivering something shocking, but she revelled in the agony of it, hoped it would take her out as effectively as an Unforgivable.

But she had no strength left to fight as Narcissa easily dragged her to her feet and guided her inside. Hermione closed her eyes as she sank down into cushions. Blankets were wrapped around her shoulders. A bottle pressed against her lips and her body dutifully swallowed the warm potion within, greedily soaking up the heat and going about its business and repairing any damage. Hermione hated it for working so hard to keep her alive when she didn’t want it, wished she could just instruct her heart to cease its beating as easily as she might lift her leg or clench her fist.

She tried, directed all her thoughts at the hollow space behind her sternum, wiling it to slow, to still.

It defiantly maintained its steady rhythm and each clench of a ventricle felt like a strike against her.

Without warning, she was pulled into gentle arms, her head directed to rest beneath the firm ridge of a collarbone. Something dabbed at her cheeks, and Hermione realised tears were dribbling from her eyes.

“Shh, it’s alright. You’re safe now. This will pass…”

Hermione wished she could tell Narcissa that it didn’t matter, that she didn’t want it to get better. Her eyes pinched shut even harder and she tried to ignore the soft voice which drifted through her magically dried hair.

“You’ve done so well. Truly. Far braver and stronger than anyone… This will all be over soon, I promise. You mustn’t give up, not when we’re so close, now…”

Hermione wished she could block her hearing as easily as she could her sight.

“Think of your friends, how much they need you.”

Hermione couldn’t help it: a strangled whimper escaped and Narcissa gripped her more tightly.

“I need you, too. I’d not be here if not for you. Please don’t leave me now.”

A violent sob tore its way from Hermione’s throat and she couldn’t hold back the rest that followed. They ripped her apart from the inside out and if not for Narcissa’s arms around her she felt certain she would have come apart then, decimated beyond hope of repair.

The sobs went on impossibly long. Hermione’s mind and body were so disjointed from one another that while all she wanted was reprieve, her lungs would not cease their gasping, not even for a moment. It seemed to last forever; her hair was soaked again, this time from tears, and her diaphragm seized so ferociously she was sure she could not breathe.

Another potion was summoned and pressed to her lips and Hermione gulped it down, choked when her lungs insisted on swallowing some too.

And then her bones melted and she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was started in January and finished today. It took so long to get out partly because I've had a busy year, and also I didn't trust myself to write it well. There have been so many times over the months where I've written the whole thing in my head but I couldn't bear to actually put it on paper in case it wasn't perfect. I wrote the last quarter in a sudden burst at a cafe today and I think I'm rather satisfied. Relieved it's over with, at least. Now that this is done, hopefully the rest will come easier. (At least the next wait should be less than 7 months. That's just cruel.)
> 
> Reminder that while my chapters may be inconsistent, I'm always writing updates on my tumblr and very chatty if you have questions, critiques or just want to say hi: 16-pennies.tumblr.com


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